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Sports Illustrated

AUGUST 26, 1968 50 CENTS s

ROD LAVER

RUSHING THE IMMORTALS

THE MAN TO BEAT IN THE FIRST
U.S. OPEN TENNIS TOURNAMENT

-^Utt! in Scotland and Bolted
Kutqdom under Cove inmenf St)

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They don’t make them like they used to.

They may still look like they used to,
but that doesn't mean we still make them
that way.

We used to have a tiny rear window.
Now there's a big one.

We used to have a plain old rear seat.
Now there's one that folds down.

.Over the years, engine power has been

increased by 76%.

A dual brake system has been added.

The heater is much improved.

Fact is, over the years, over 2,200 such
improvements have been made. Yet, you
hove to be some sort of a car nut to tell a
new one from an old one.

Which, of course, was the plan.

In 1949, when we decided not to out-
date the bug, some of the big auto names
making big, fancy changes were Kaiser,
Hudson and Nash.

Not that we were right and
they were wrong, but one
thing's for sure:They don't make
them like they used to either.

Contents

AUGUST 26, 1968 Volume 29, No. 9

Cover photograph by Sheedy A Long

14 Julie Bags a Bundle

With a 1 2- foot birdie putt on the Iasi hole, Julie Boros
wins the Westchester Classic and picks up a coo! $50,000

18 Sore Spots in a Big-Arm Year

Behind all those wondrous reports of shutout games are the
sad stories of young pitchers who threw their arms away

20 Jet-Age Slow Brummell

Joe Namath isn't exactly on strike — he's just taking his
time — but he's still ahead of the field in his new furs

22 Open Season for a Test of Time

Rod Laver so dominates the tennis field that he soon may
have no competition but the memory of immortals

30 Would You Trade With This Man?

Frank Lane, the biggest wheeler-dealer baseball ever
knew, is still a charismatic figure, even as a scout

36 Olympic Prep on the Peaks

Getting up for Mexico, Europe's top athletes find a
high-altitude hideaway on the rooftop of France

58 Birdy Days on a Fishing Safari

The tourist office made an error — and a fishing safari in
South Africa turned out to be for the birds

The departments

9 Scorecard

43 People

44 Sailing
48 Bridge

53 Tennis

73 Baseball's Week

74 For the Record

75 19th Hole

Sports Illustrated is published
weekly, except one issue at year
end. by Time Inc.. 540 N. Michi-
gan Avc,. Chicago. III. 6061 1; prin-
cipal office Rockc eller Center. New
York. N.Y. 10020; Janies A. Linen,
President; D. W. Brumbaugh.
Treasurer; John F Harvey. Secre-
tary. Second-class postage paid
al Chicago. Ill, and at additional
mailing offices. Authorized as
second-class mail by the Post Office
Department. Ottawa. Canada and
for payment of postage in cash.
Continental US. subscriptions S9
a year; Alaska. Canada. Hawaii.
Puerto Rico, Virgin Islands SI0 a
year, military personnel anywhere
in the world S6 a year; all others

Credits

Next week

REVENGE is what the Dallas
Cowboys want as they take on
the Green Bay Packers, who
have twice edged them for the
NFL title. It may be an exhibi-
tion game, but it’s also a war.

"ON. DANCER: on. Pride” will
be the cry of those rooting
for the favorite as Stanley
Dancer and Ncvcle Pride go
for trotting’s most important
prize— The Hambletonian.

THE HA WK is a swinger, no
matter how you view him— at
bat in Fenway Park or on the
town in his Nehru jacket. Wil-
liam Leggett reports on Ken
Harrelson, Boston's new rave.

PERMISSION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.

LETTER FROM THE PUBLISHER

A reader wrote us recently and began,
“Not knowing if anyone will ever read
this letter. . . The writer might be
pleased to know that almost everyone
around here will read that letter or a
copy of it. Someone has to, as a mat-
ter of policy, and the rest of us are en-
dowed with the normal amount of
human curiosity. There is no telling,
after all, what the mail may bring. Jim
Ryun's name first appeared in SI in
the 19th Hole ( pa^e 75), and our read-
ers have submitted countless sugges-
tions for Scorecard as well as can-
didates for Faces in the Crowd. A
softball controversy that raged in the
letters column won us a Softball Writ-
er's and Broadcaster’s Association
award in 1966. A letter from a Los An-
geles reader challenging Richard L.
Frey, publicity director of the Amer-
ican Contract Bridge League, and an
Eastern team to a bridge match sub-
sequently developed into an annual
intercity competition.

Not long ago our curiosity was re
warded again when we gave full at-
tention to this penciled communication
from the Midwest: "Dear Sirs. My
name is Clarke Hemphill. I am 12 years
old and live at Oaklandon, Indiana.
My father and I water race dogs. I
doubt if you are familiar with the sport
but you pul a raccoon on a metal float
and then let the dogs out of the
box. . . . They swim after the raccoon
on the float but there is no possible
way for the raccoon to be caught. . . .
I think it would make a very colorful
cover story . . . the date is the week-
end of the Forth of July." Master
Hemphill's letter contained a diagram
of admirable clarity, which helped us
understand the rather mystifying
phrase "water race dogs.” After a cou-
ple of senior editors and the art and pic-
ture departments had given the sug-
gestion their careful consideration, we
opened negotiations with the young
man and found him most helpful and
efficient in the matter of arrangements

and directions. His most recent com-
munication ends, “P.S. Not trying to
hog the camera or nothing but if you
use it as a cover story we have a dog
named Tiger who jumps from the box
very well. . . . This is only a sugges-
tion.” Well, we took the suggestion,
of course, and you should be seeing
the pictures one of these days, al-
though we can’t guarantee that Tiger
will make the cover.

Some suggestions are not as satis-
factory to follow up. "Drop dead, you
idiots,” for example, or simultaneous
recommendations that we a) stop run-
ning so much stuff on baseball and b)
run more stuff on baseball. However,
taking into account the fact that peo-
ple are more apt to write letters when
they are furious than when they arc
pleased. Miss Gay Flood, who han-
dles the letters department, feels that
our correspondents are an intelligent,
lively and good-humored lot. We do
get howls of protest (most often they
involve football predictions), and ev-
ery time we put a girl in a bathing
suit on the cover we wait with interest
to see what the proportion of approv-
ing college boys to infuriated mothers
will be.

But, by and large, our letter-writing
readers are constructive and informa-
tive. We have never been more aware
of this than during and after our re-
cent five-part series on The Black Ath-
lete by Jack Olsen. Such a volatile sub-
ject might well have produced an av-
alanche of poison-pen letters. But
though reactions and opinions varied
greatly, the bulk of the letters were re-
markably thoughtful, articulate and
concerned.

So, please write. We really look for-
ward to hearing from you.

Sports Illustrated

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•muster in the Peace Corps, w rite us.

like Peace Corps, Washington, D.C. 2$ 5525

Is the glass half empty or half full?

If you think it’s half empty,
maybe the Peace Corps is not for you.

If you think it's half full,

you’ve got the first thing we look for in Peace Corps people
Optimist!

If you w
to pass m

Nothing almost about Dial. Dial’s
the one soap with AT-7. The very
thing to get rid ol bacteria that cause
perspiration odor. No iPs.

No but’s. No maybc’s.

Dial’s a sure thing.

{don't you wish everybody did?)

“You’d cotton
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RIDICULOUS!”

Insist on the
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SHOPWALK

Hey, Paunchy! No need to run around
the reservoir. Exer-Genie will do it

I f the only way to become truly physically
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by lifting 200-pound barbells or jogging
through the streets at near-zero temperatures
in your underwear, then a lot of soft and
paunchy people are likely to stay soft and
paunchy. But wait! There is an easier way:
a seemingly innocuous little device called
Exer-Genie, which, many people say, really
works.

Exer-Genie is nothing more than a 734-
inch cylinder of metal through which you
pull a 10-foot length of rope with your arms,
your legs or (by means of a harness) your
whole body. The trick lies in the fact that
you can adjust the tension on the rope to
resist your pull with a range of anywhere
from I to 410 pounds.

Though Exer-Genie itself weighs only 1 */i
pounds and easily fits into a briefcase, it
now plays a major role in the training pro-
grams of a number of first-rank college swim-
ming teams, professional football and base-
ball teams, not to mention a growing num-
ber of nonalhleles who simply desire a good,
quick workout in their own homes. The
Houston Oilers spend 30 minutes daily on
a complex of 12 Excr-Genies, and Houston
Astro pitchers use the Exer-Genie before
going to the bullpen.

Two basic principles are combined in an
Exer-Genie workout: isometrics (straining
the muscles against an immovable object)
and isotonics (working the muscles through
a complete range of motion, against a mov-
able tension). You begin each exercise with
a 10-second isometric phase, to create a
“fatigue factor." Then, without a pause,
you move into the isotonic phase, to build
dynamic strength, as well as muscle endur-
ance and flexibility. According to one user
who happens to be an Olympic swimming
coach, completing the second phase imme-
diately after the first is like doing the last
of 30 push-ups without the exhaustion and
time consumed by the first 29.

Is Exer-Genie cveryman’s road to endur-
ance and strength? “The average American
wants to exercise in his own home but he
won’t spend even an hour a day at it,"
claims Exer-Genic's developer, Dean Miller.
“A fairly complex Exer-Genie workout can
be completed in less than half an hour
though, and we feel it fills the bill.”

Miller, who can be addressed at Physical
Fitness, Inc., P. O. Box 4074, Fullerton,
Calif. 92634, sells his machine (S29.95) only
through licensed distributors who are usu-
ally coaches or physiologists. “We want peo-
ple to use it correctly,” he explains. “Exer-
Genie is so valid that we don’t want to sec
it become another Hula-Hoop.”

— Dan Levin

For the
clean guys.

Hair shows up clear and clean even through a full
bottle of Vaseline® Hair Tonic (label removed). No sur-
prise, then, that Vaseline Hair Tonic looks clear and
clean after you put it on. ..so pure, so refined that
there's no need for us to cream it, gel it or color it. Just
a little clear clean Vaseline Hair Tonic keeps your hair
doing just what you want it to (no matter what length
you choose to wear your hair). Ask any
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And she'll tell you. One of the clean guys.

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SCORECARD

VANISHING SPORT

There has been a deep, disturbing and
almost unnoticed change in the pattern
of big-city high school athletics, once a
form of sport that provided traditional
rivalries, pleasure and excitement for
millions of children and parents.

Not since 1965 have Detroit public
schools been allowed to enter Michigan’s
high school basketball tournament. On
the last occasion two city teams met on
a neutral court, at night, and when the
game was over nine youths had been
stabbed.

Last February in Baltimore 3,000 teen-
agers rioted after a city basketball cham-
pionship, and it took 200 policemen,
mounted officers and police dogs an hour
to subdue the mclcc.

Last May in Buffalo bus drivers carry-
ing students from a major track meet
asked for police protection after two
drivers were robbed and the seats ripped
up. Two policemen were assigned to
follow each bus in a patrol car. but fur-
ther disturbances caused the cancella-
tion of the city's All-High meet.

These incidents are not extraordinary.
The alarming violence at urban high
school sports events is being played down
by some authorities, but consider these
facts:

Baltimore, Buffalo and Rochester, to
name just three cities, permit virtually
no public high school athletic contests
at night.

In Detroit last week two high school
charity football bowls, the city's oldest,
were dropped. The unannounced reason:
fear of roving mobs in the stadium. Only
one high school football or basketball
game can be scheduled in a Detroit po-
lice precinct on the same day — there
would be insufficient police available —
and students who attend the games must
present a school identification card as
well as a ticket at the door.

In St. Louis the public high school
league games are held in the afternoon,
on school property, with a heavy guard
of uniformed ushers, policemen and po-

lice dogs. The city’s public high school
stadium is not used. "It was impossible
to provide adequate police protection
there,” a coach explains.

In Washington there have been no
city championship games in six years.

All of this has added a new dimen-
sion to the science of physical education.
The Chicago schools' physical-education
director, for instance, has just completed
a treatise entitled Big City Approach to
Crowd Control for Interscholastic Com-
petition, a work that might also be called
Playing in the Concrete Jungle.

As a new scholastic season begins one
can only observe with sadness how much
our cities have changed — and the sport
within them.

SUPER LOSS

It may be that Al Davis of the Oakland
Raiders has been reading Poor Richard’s
Almanack. Like Ben Franklin ("Success
has ruined many a man’’), Davis has
been poor-mouthing it ever since the
Raiders won their way to the Super Bowl.
“It’s the most expensive thing a team
can do,” he laments. “We got $95,000
from playing in the Super Bowl. After
paying transportation, buying rings with
three-quarter-carat diamonds for our
22 partners and our players and pen-
dants for the wives, we were left with S20,-
000. And the players have probably
asked for 5300,000 more in salary.”

Poor Al. Rich Raiders.

HEAR, HEAR

Research being done at the University
of Tennessee in Knoxville shows that
present-day recreational noises are caus-
ing an alarming deterioration in hearing.
Rock music, motorcycles, gunfire and
even participation in school bands can
have harmful effects, especially if a per-
son is exposed to several kinds of these
noises.

”We were shocked to find that the
hearing of many U.T. freshmen had al-
ready deteriorated to a level of the aver-
age 65-year-old person," Dr. David Lips-

comb, the supervisor of the audio study,
says. Besides the Volunteers, Lipscomb
tested 3,000 Knoxville public school
students. He found that there was a
marked decrease in high-frequency
hearing as a student moved from the
sixth to the 12th grade, a period during
which his exposure to recreational noises
greatly increased.

Children probably will turn a deaf ear
to Dr. Lipscomb's warning, but he de-
serves a hurrah. Perhaps if he could come
out for Tennessee’s opening game against
Georgia the U.T. cheering section could
. . . shut up.

WEIGHTY MATTER

Despite a rigorous diet, Poland’s Olym-
pic triple jump star, Jan Jaskolski, has
been putting on weight ever since he
gave up smoking seven months ago. Last
week his coach ordered him back on cig-
arettes. Jaskolski’s recent jumps have
been just too many silly millimeters off.

SPARE YOURSELF TROUBLE

In the future British motorists traveling
abroad may have more than just a spare
tire in the boot. The Royal Automobile
Club now has a rent-a-part service for

travelers taking their cars to foreign
countries. For about 35(i a day a mo-
torist can obtain a kit including such
things as spare bulbs for the lights, fus-
es, an electrical fuel pump, a condenser,
a coil, a distributor cap, points, plugs
and a fan belt. A spokesman for the
RAC explained, “The cost of obtaining
spare parts for British cars taken abroad
by their owners is a very expensive busi-

SCORECARD continued

Traditional
clothes for
contemporary men

Authentic models, fabrics,
patterns, plus additional selections
lust a little bolder, a little more
daring, but always in good taste.
You'll like Canterfield suits, sport
coats, coordinates. Canterfield,
Division of Curlee Clothing Co.,

ness. Equally important, a slice of their
holiday can be wasted just waiting for
the part to be flown in. particularly if
they are in a remote part of the coun-
try.” The RAC says the kit will rectify
65' j of all breakdowns experienced by
English motorists. For the other 35'.,',
the club has included a tow rope in the
rent-a-kit.

LEANING ON FRUITCAKE

"It is the worst professional athletic team
in North America,” said its co-owner,
Lamar Hunt. That was when the Dal-
las Tornado soccer team was running
up an 0-18-3 record. But now the club
has acquired some new personnel and
is on a relative tear, winning two out of
seven games, and Lamar Hunt feels per-
haps he was too hasty in casting judg-
ment. Before hiring a new coach, how-
ever, Hunt and Co-owner Bill McNutt,
who is in the fruitcake business, had
even tried running the team themselves
for two games. They lost both.

Despite the Tornados’ dismal season,
they are drawing an average of 2.500 peo-
ple per game, but that is scant solace.
When they appeared in the Rose Bowl
not long ago only 1,251 of the 94,405
seats were filled. "When the season
ends,” says McNutt, "wc’II just have to
sell the heck out of fruitcakes.”

FAITH, HOPE AND DRAPEAU

On August 7, Montreal came within five
minutes of returning its franchise to the
National League. At the conclusion of
a dismal meeting that produced no real
hope for either a satisfactory temporary
stadium or a permanent domed struc-
ture, there appeared to be nothing left
but to announce the surrender to the
waiting press. Mayor Jean Drapcau, who
had by then already driven League Presi-
dent Warren Giles to distraction by con-
stantly assuring him that “there are no
problems, only solutions,” pleaded that
they at least delay official announcement
for one more day and pray or some-
thing in the meantime. "Faith,” the
mayor suggested.

A few hours later John McHale, who
is part owner and president of the new
team, shrugged and proposed a visit to
a recreational area in the north of town
called Jarry Park. A local all-star game
was in progress on the diamond there,
and when the revered little mayor was
recognized a scene of high emotion fol-
lowed. The 2,000 fans rose and applaud-

cd, and cried, "We must have a team.”
The potential for constructing a tem-
porary 30,000-scat stadium on the site
was suddenly as obvious as the demand.
"This is what I have been looking for,”
Giles beamed. "This is a baseball park."

There arc still no firm plans for the
promised domed stadium, but Mayor
Drapcau and faith will probably solve
that one, too. McHale, a believer now,
like everyone else in Montreal, just as-
sumes "he'll pull that other rabbit out
of the hat, too."

Now that there appears to be a team,
it has to be named. Voyagcurs and Expos

neither of which seems to be a for-
tunate choice — are the favorites. Mir-
acles or Faiths (Les Fois) arc more re-
cent and more appropriate candidates.
But why not be obvious and just call
them the Drapcaux? With that name,
Montreal would be a cinch to win the
National League flag its first season.

OUT OF AMMUNITION

That fine British pastime, croquet, is cur-
rently the craze well, call it the en-
thusiasm — of the United Arab Republic.
President Gamal Abdel Nasser has a
well-tended croquet lawn behind his
home it is said he plays a wicked game
— and the sport has even become popu-
lar with sugar-factory workers. Mallets
are being made from the steel shafts of
golf clubs (is golf dying in Cairo?), but
there is a shortage of suitable croquet
balls. "We've had some of our best en-
gineers trying to make them,” Ahmed
Hamroush.the president of the Egyptian
Croquet Federation, reports, "but they
fall apart after a few games." Balls could
be imported from England, but there is
a shortage of currency. Since the U.A.R.
government is only willing to release a
few hundred pounds a year in foreign
exchange to the croquet clubs to pay
for balls (they cost about SI 7 for a set
of four), the supply of authentic Eng-
lish models is fast diminishing. And this
is one time Nasser cannot turn to Rus-
sia for aid.

FIVE-YEAR SATCH

In 1930 Leroy (Satchel) Paige beat Babe
Ruth's major league all-stars handily,
striking out 22. In 1947 he beat Bob Fel-
ler's major league all-stars 8-0, striking
out 15. In 1948, at age 42, he was final-
ly signed by a major league team, the In-
dians. (He drew 72,000 to his first game
in Cleveland.) The American League

handicapped him slightly by banning his
“hesitation” pitch, but he saw the jus-
tice of it: “It was pretty tough on those
boys having to play against somebody
like me. They’d had expensive coaches
and guys like that to teach them how to
throw. They didn’t have to figure things
out for themselves.”

Paige’s intermittent major league ca-
reer ended in 1965, leaving him 158 days
short of the five years required to draw
the minimum pension. Learning that
Satchel had been shortchanged by base-
ball and feeling they could give their fans
something to talk about, the Atlan-
ta Braves last week signed Paige as
a pitcher-coach. His contract will run
through the 1969 season.

At a press conference in Atlanta, Paige
was asked about his pitching prospects.
"I'll just have to get out there and see
how I unfold,” he said. “I got bloop-
ers, loopers and droopers. I got a jump-
ball, a screwball, a wobbly ball, a hurry-
up ball, a nothin’ ball and a bat dodg-
er." Asked about his age, he appeared
not to be satisfied with recently discov-
ered evidence that says he is 62. "They've
done a lot of investigating,” he said,
"and to tell the truth, it’s got where it
puzzles me myself. They couldn’t find
my record in Mobile, because the jail
had moved and the judge had died.”

It is good, if incongruous, to sec Satch
get a chance to be a five-year man, like
Mike de la Hoz and Galen Cisco. But
that gesture will hardly acquit major
league baseball of neglecting him — or
of cheating itself out of 20 years of great
pitching and press conferences.

THEY SAID IT

• Hubert H. Humphrey. U.S. Vice-Presi-
dent, on President Johnson’s golf game:
"You’d better be careful any time you
play golf with President Johnson — he
always brings his own Birdies.”

• Elvin Hayes, former Houston basket-
ball star, on his turning professional:
"If I had decided to play in the Olym-
pics, I would have had to maintain my
amateur standing. Then if I got hurt,
who would have taken care of me? In-
ternational basketball players aren’t that
good, but they play rough and some of
the players are out to hurt you. Bas-
ketball is my profession. I have been
looking forward to the pros for 17 years.

I think the Olympics are more for the
average players. Going to the Olympics
is their last chance at glory." end

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or aaiSJfl(:u»‘.C'3> <3b

The friend of the woman in 17C.

As the big jetliner approaches the
airport at London, the young woman in
seat 17C grows nervous, It's her first
flight and as she looks out the window,
she sees nothing but fog.

She reaches out to touch her sleep-
ing three-year-old daughter. How can
the pilot possibly see the airport?

When the jetliner's wheels touch
down gently on the runway, the woman
smiles and turns to her daughter. But
her daughter sleeps on.

One reason the landing was easy
and gentle is because the pilot used an
electronic guidance system called ILS —
for Instrument Landing System. It was
developed by International Telephone
and Telegraph Corporation, or ITT.
Every 30 seconds somewhere in the
world an aircraft lands safely using an
application of ILS.

In fact , without ILS and other of
our developments, air travel as we
know it today would be impossible.

The woman in seat 17C didn't
know it, but the day she boarded her
jet, ITT had already played a part in
her life.

How many ITT's?

When she cabled her husband in
London to confirm the date and time
of her arrival, the message was sent
via ITT.

The car she drove to New York's
Kennedy International Airport from her
parents' home in New Jersey was rented
from one of our companies.

Yet the woman possibly had never
even heard of ITT.

The "International'' in our name
is well deserved. We do business in
123 countries around the world and
employ more than 241 ,000 people.

Telephone and Telegraph?

But what about the "Telephone
and Telegraph"? What's a communica-
tions company doing in so many other
areas of business?

Originally, we were a telephone
and telegraph company. Even after we

became one of the largest diversified
manufacturing and service organiza-
tions in the world, the name stayed.

As ITT has grown since those early
days, it has made history.

During World War II, for example,
an ITT-developed radio direction finder
was credited with bringing the Nazi
submarine wolfpacks to a standstill,
shortening the war by at least two years.

In 1963, using earth terminals de-
signed by us for communicating via
satellite, we helped open up the first
experimental satellite link between
North and South America.

In 1965, one of our satellite-com-
munication earth terminals, aboard a
Navy aircraft carrier, helped make it
possible for millions in the U S. and
Europe to see on TV the recovery of
Gemini astronauts at sea, live, as it
happened.

Five times more during 1966 a ter-
minal was installed aboard a carrier and
five times more millions saw actual
splashdown and recovery operations,

Last year during the Arab-lsraeli
war, the White House used the Wash-
ington-Moscow Hot Line— for the first
time in a crisis. One of our companies
keeps the Hot Line ready.

Another of our companies runs
the Kilmer Job Corps Center in New
Jersey for the Office of Economic Op-
portunity. This same company oper-
ates and maintains the strategic Distant
Early Warning (DEW) Line which
stretches from Alaska to Greenland.

ITT today

ITT today is composed of more
than 200 associated companies around
the world.

By bringing to bear our total ex-
pertise, these companies have gener-
ated increased competition within
industries and, consequently, have
generated more efficient use of man-
power and material resources.

The fields in which we operate
were selected for growth potential as

well as present needs. And last year,
more than 50 percent of our earnings
were derived from domestic sources.

Much of this U.S. growth can be
traced to our interest in the service
industries.

People's desire for service keeps
growing. So we've put increasing em-
phasis on it. Gur U.S. sales and re-
venues are now split about 50-50 be-
tween manufacturing and service
activities.

In addition to renting cars (Avis, to
be exact), educational training ser-
vices, and airport and hotel parking,
ITT offers consumer loan services,
mutual fund management, and data
processing— just to name a few.

Sheraton, a system of hotels and
franchised motor inns, in the U.S. and
abroad, is now part of ITT. So is Levitt
& Sons, world's largest international
home and community builder.

We also operate a communica-
tions network made up of thousands of
cable, radio and satellite circuits, and
can transmit a message to almost any
point on the globe.

Recently, we entered the field of
natural-resource conversion with ITT
Rayonier Inc. and Pennsylvania Glass
Sand Corporation. These two opera-
tions take raw material from the earth
and its forests and make them useful
to manufacturers of cellophane, tex-
tile fibers, tire cord, photographic film,
paper, glass, chemicals, and other re-
lated products.

ITT and you

With all these services— plus thou-
sands of consumer, industrial and mili-
tary products and services— ITT is
helping you and people all over the
world to enjoy a better, safer, more
comfortable lire.

Just as it helped the woman in
seat 17C.

International Telephone and Tele-
graph Corporation, 320 Park Ave.,
New York, N.Y. 10022.

ITT

Sports Illustrated

AUGUST 20, I860

UP, UP AND AWAY GO THE GOLFERS' EARNINGS, WITH NO END IN SIGHT

Five years ago the tour had its first $100,000 money winners. much, and this year there may be twice that number. Palmer.

Palmer and Nicklaus. Last year seven players earned that who led in '58 and '63. ranks 11th this year with just $ 76.917 .

1958

542,607
41.323
36.267
35.393
29.841
29.817
26.940
26.384
25.170

1963

Arnold Palmer

5130,835

Jack Nicklaus

102,903

Julius Boros

84,524

Tony Lcma

69,670

Gary Player

60,220

Dow Finsterwald

54,574

Mason Rudolph

46,629

Billy Casper

38,358

Al Geibergcr

38,005

Bobby Nichols

37,179

1968 (through August 18)

Billy Casper

5146,685

Julius Boros

144,357

Tom Weiskopf

143,721

Jack Nicklaus

140.904

George Archer

105.274

Lee Trevino

100,616

Dan Sikes

98.255

Miller Barber

91,913

Dave Stockton

88,436

Frank Beard

88,005

Arnold Palmer
Billy Casper
Ken Venturi
Dow Finsterwald
Art Wall
Julius Boros
Tommy Bolt
Jay Hebert
Bob Rosburg
Doug Ford

JULIE BAGS A BUNDLE

by CURRY KIRKPATRICK

T hey came down to the end, like
wolves at each others’ throats again,
and everybody just knew that old Julie
would be right there. When the big mon-
ey is out on the table Julius Boros is al-
ways right there. Last week, in Har-
rison, N.Y., a pleasant little community
of, oh, maybe 5.000 trillionaircs, Julius
Boros, his sore back aching and three
of his seven children at his side, lobbed
one out of the sand and then ran in a 12-
foot putt to nudge Jack Nicklaus, Dan
Sikes and Bob Murphy by one shot and
win S50.000 and the richest golf tour-
nament alive, the Westchester Classic.

Boros' victory was not achieved amid
classic conditions. The latest flare-up be-
tween the PGA and the touring pros
broke out even before the tournament
started. And all week one rumor and
then another would float up and down
the Eastern Seaboard. Jack Tulhill, the
tournament director in the field, would
be fired on the spot. The players who
didn’t sign a promise to stay in the PGA
would be arrested, handcuffed and car-
ried off the first tee. Things like that.
The rumors originated at the PGA head-
quarters in Palm Beach Gardens, Fla.,

worked their way north through Wash-
ington and finally into Harrison, where
everybody said to hell with it and let's
just go out and win some money.

Up until Boros' dramatic finish, the
tournament had belonged to Murphy, a
red-haired rookie who was aiming for
his first victory since leaving the ama-
teur ranks last August. Murphy's the
guy who looks like Nicklaus, the gal-
leries always say at the start of a tour-
nament. Just like him. That face. Rolls
and rolls of tummy. Walks dumpy. Hits
it a mile. That's him over there. See?
Looks just like Jack. Then Murphy pulls
out a cigar, jams it in his myuth and
goes bogey, bogey, bogey to finish 40th.
He doesn’t look like Jack anymore.

In Harrison, however, Murphy aban-
doned his cigar and began to play like
Jack as well as look like him. His 64 in
the opening round led Dan Sikes by
one shot, and he increased his lead a
stroke each day until, playing magnif-
icent golf under the most extreme pres-
sures imaginable — S50.000 worth of
pressure — he finally faltered. On the par-
5 72nd hole he chose to play his second
shot short just before Boros struck his

birdie putt. Murphy chipped close, but
his putt for the tie missed. Even so Bob
Murphy really looked exactly like Jack
Nicklaus: they were tied for second place.

Boros defeated what was probably the
finest field that has graced a PGA tour-
nament all year long. Certainly the tal-
ent at Westchester was more plentiful,
through and through, than that at some
of the more cilcbralcd, though less lu-
crative, events: the Masters, which is ba-
sically an invitational affair and some-
times chooses name and station over
golfing ability to balance its field; the
Open, which anybody with a hot day of
qualifying rounds can get into; or the
PGA, where club pros from all over an-
nually seem to have nothing more than
a hot dog, beer, and miss-the-cut re-
union. Indeed, only a few foreign play-
ers (including Gary Player) among all
the professional golfers you have heard
of were not at Westchester. The reason,
in cold, hard fact, was cold, hard cash.

It is altogether proper, however that
the richest tournament of them all is
held at graceful, stately, loaded old West-
chester. Founded in the early '20s, at a
time when World War I had created a

spate of new affluence and spectacularly
rich men, Westchester was advanced
shamelessly by New York society pa-
trons as a magnificent playground of
the wealthy. Original members could
boast of more than 600 acres of lush
grounds with a polo field, riding sta-
bles, clay and grass tennis courts and
three golf courses ringed with a bridle
path. Westchester had a beach club and
casino nearby, "the largest privately
owned swimming pool in the world” and,
in the center of all of this, a towering
eight-story hotel of brick and white stuc-
co and castle-on-the-Rhine elegance;
from its 400 rooms visiting maharajahs
could gaze out on the boats sailing on
Long Island Sound.

Bill Tilden played tennis there and
Johnny Weissmuller swam thereand Babe
Ruth drank there and the Guests and
the Whitneys poloed there and all the
Wall Street guys would step into the bro-
kerage office inside the clubhouse after
a quick 18 and decide whether they
should buy or sell or go out and hit a
few off the practice tee. It was a time of
Pierce- Arrows and "Bojangles” Robin-
son and terrapin races at the ball and
Makin' Whoopee. And it was a time of
a 21 -year-old cocksure Gene Sarazen de-
feating British Open winner Walter
Hagen for the "world's championship"
at Westchester and winning the largest
purse in the history of golf, $3,000.

Perhaps, then. Eastern Airlines and
the other "grand patrons” of the West-
chester Classic, who started their tour-
nament last year with a $250,000 purse
and a $50,000 first prize, possessed a
fine sense of history as well as of funds.

When the Thundcrbird was taken
away from Westchester in 1965, after
the New Jersey Ford dealers high-hand-
ed the New York dealers and drove the
Thunderbird right back to Montclair,
where it had started, Bill Jennings, the
chairman of the tournament and the
president of the New York Rangers
hockey club, found himself without a
golf event. Quickly he gathered forces
and, with the help of Eastern and sev-
eral wealthy banks, liquor companies
and publications, came up with enough
money two years later to present an-
other golf event, this one the "richest

in the world." (It was also, not too in-
cidentally, richer by far than the Thun-
derbird.) Despite rain that washed away
the second round on three consecutive
days, the first Westchester Classic raised
$293,000 for charity. The tournament
now is the PGA’s showcase money event
and a symbol of how the economics of
golf have staggered the imagination even
of the game's most ardent followers.

Only a few reminders are necessary
to understand how much golf money
has changed and increased over the years.

• In 1934, when money lists were first

compiled, Paul Runyan led the tour with
$6,767 for the year, a figure lower than
that won by the first 10 men at West-
chester for the week.

• In 1958 Arnold Palmer's leading
money total for the year was $42,607.
With a quarter of this season still to go,
29 players have already surpassed Ar-
nie's figure. Jack Nicklaus, in fact, won
more than that in the first two weeks of
August. In 1967 Nicklaus won $100,000
in a 13-day span at Westchester and the
World Series of Golf.

• Sam Snead, seldom finishing in con-

continued

$$$$$ continued

Young Bob Murphy, a Nicklaus look-alike, had to settle for a mere S 20,416 second prize.

tention, has earned more already this
year ($38,456) than in any of the three
years he led the PGA money list.

• Two weeks ago an unknown Negro
named Lee Elder thrilled a national TV
audience with a dramatic extra-hole chal-
lenge to Nicklaus and won Akron’s sec-
ond place money of $12,187, almost
$2,000 more than a man named Ben
Hogan earned in 1940 when he led the
pros.

As a result of all of this, the PGA
tour, which in 1958 had just passed the
million mark in total purses, is today —
10 years later — a $5.6 million enterprise
and still rising. “Ceiling?" says Dave
Marr. "Evcrytime I think we’ve hit the
ceiling we go right on through. In I960
when Indianapolis had a $50,000 purse,
every man who ever swung a club was
there. They came out of the woodwork.
Now Indianapolis offers a hundred thou-
sand and nobody will show up."

It is difficult to single out one factor
as the major catalyst in this phenomenal
money explosion, but television is a good
place to start.

Obviously the unique aspects of the
sport itself generated the growth of in-
terest in golf. It is the one game that a
man over 35 can play well up into his de-
clining years with some measure of skill.
This factor automatically bestowed upon
the game a captive constituencyjust wait-
ing to be indulged. With the arrival on
the scene of the superstars (Palmer and
Nicklaus gave the term “super" a def-
inition it never had under such men as
Hogan and Snead), golf began to reach
and appeal to an entirely new group of
people. Those who had not yet discov-
ered the game suddenly became fans.
Then they began playing. And they be-
came superfans.

This increasing popularity led, in turn,
to the television boom and enticed all
kinds of new commercial interests into
the tournament picture.

The first golf tournament to be tele-
vised live, in no living color, with no vi-
deotape and no instant slow-motion,
split-screen, stop-action replay, was the
U.S. Open in 1949. But it was a tele-
cast four years later that probably re-
vealed to the audience at home the full
personal drama, pathos and excitement
that only a man-to-man golf match can
generate. While announcer Jimmy De-
maret held a microphone on the 18th
green to congratulate Chandler Harper

on his apparent victory in the World
Championship of Golf at Tam O'Shan-
ter. Lew Worsham flew in his spectacular
wedge shot from out of the clover, 120
yards away, to beat Harper by a stroke.

“Goddam, it’s in the hole!” Jimmy
Demaret exclaimed to America, and tele-
vised golf was here to stay.

For 10 years after that the PGA and
television had a fuzzy connection in
which neither party was entirely satisfied.
Nor was either side cognizant of the enor-
mously rich possibilities of a full-scale
working merger. In the beginning tour-
naments such as the Masters, the Open
and the Crosby were purchased and sold
under individual contracts; later many
of the regular PGA events were han-
dled in the same manner. During this
time the sponsors of the tournaments
owned all of the television rights, and
the players became increasingly con-
cerned with where this TV money was
going. They felt that, with no bargaining
powers, the sponsors were being whip-
sawed by television and, further, that
when the sponsors did get the money no-
body from the PGA side really knew
how much of it was there.

It was not until 1964 that this situ-
ation was changed. Through their tele-
vision representative, Martin Carmi-
chael, a New York lawyer, the players
finally obtained the TV rights to many
of their own PGA events and sold them
in a package deal. Now they knew how
much money TV was shelling out and,
of far greater importance, they knew ex-
actly where it was going.

“Our first package was for seven tour-
naments and 575,000," says Carmichael.
"Butin 1 965, a year later, the dam broke
and, for twice the number of events, we
went up to 5700,000. The money has
been moving steadily upward ever since.”

For the 1967 and 1968 seasons Car-
michael negotiated for the PGA the first
major sports TV contract worked out
simultaneously and individually with two
different networks (ABC and Sports Net-
work, Inc.). It provided for live telecasts
of 15 tour events a year, about the same
number as is included in the recently
signed agreement for the 1969 and 1970
seasons. That two-year contract calls for
approximately twice the figure per year
negotiated in the PGA’s original "big
money" deal of 1965.

“We have tried to advance on the the-
ory of selling fewer tournaments for more

money,” says Carmichael. “The PGA
is constantly concerned with putting too
much golf on television. But if the net-
works keep paying for it and advertisers
still want to buy the time, I guess we're
not overexposing ourselves yet."

(In the midst of the PGA's internecine
struggle last week Carmichael went
ahead and quietly closed part of the new
TV contract involving a four-tournament
package of Doral, Greensboro, New Or-
leans and Atlanta. It is fairly certain
that no matter what the eventual out-
come of the players’ revolt, both play-
ers and sponsors will honor their tele-
vision commitments.)

In recent years more and more tour-
naments are being supported, if not en-
tirely taken over, by such giant business
sponsors as Ford, Buick. Eastern, Kaiser
and Kemper Life Assurance. As this
trend continues, as the demand for
more and richer golf tournaments ex-
ceeds the number of weeks in which
to play them, the PGA is faced with
a dilemma: either replace the older but
cheaper events with new, more lucra-
tive tournaments or turn down the new
offers in order to stand fast with old
friends. However, for all the sponsors
the question is, in effect; What can
you do for me now? And the solution
ultimately will depend on who comes
up with the most money.

“We have two responsibilities, one to
the players and one to the sponsors,”
says Frank Beard, a member of the play-
ers’ tournament committee. “But we’ve
got to think our primary obligation is to
the players. How can we tell our guys
that we’ve turned down maybe a mil-
lion more dollars next year in order to
retain all of our old sponsors? Tour-
nament golf is a sponsor's sideline; it's a
player's livelihood. All we’ve received
over the last few months is criticism
about being money-grabbing, power-
hungry, poor little rich boys, and we’re
tired of it. Most of us would like to
see this whole problem out in the mar-
ketplace."

In the light of the many new offers of
tournaments received by the PGA, a let-
ter from the tournament committee was
sent out in May informing all sponsors
of tournaments held during the summer
months that their events were up for re-
view (SI, June 3 ). The wording of the let-
ter (and its use of specific figures) was
unfortunate, because it has been mis-

interpreted as a demand by the PGA
that all sponsors come up with a 5200,000
purse or else.

"We aren't trying to dump anybody
indiscriminately,” says Jack Nicklaus,
another member of the committee. “We
have just explained our situation and
we have told everyone that, after this re-
view, wc will call in the sponsors of our
weakest tournaments — and these are not
necessarily the cheapest ones — and try
to agree upon some improvements. The
figures we talk about arc mostly intan-
gibles. Contrary to what a lot of people
believe, a good golf tournament is made
up of more than just money."

For the future, however, it is money
that does all of the important talking.
Next March the National Airlines Open
at the Miami Country Club will become
the third 5200, 000-plus purse on the
tour, joining the Westchester Classic
and the Milwaukee Open, and there
is much talk of a 5300.000 tournament
— backed by Wall Street money and
lo be beJd at Shinnecock Hills in South-
ampton — that would appear as early
as the fall of 1969.

Just last week the Greater Greensboro
Open announced it was raising its purse
to 5160,000, with Allied Chemical pick-
ing up the tab for the first-place check
of 532,000. In 10 years Greensboro has
increased its purse by SI 45,000 and its
first-place money by S30.000. At that
rate, the GGO of 1979 will pay 51,696,-
000 and first place will be worth 55 1 2,000.

As long as the PGA tour remains ex-
empt from overexposure and is han-
dled properly, efficiently and in a busi-
nesslike manner, there is no reason why
it can’t grow even larger than it is, no
matter who eventually does the handling.

It is only when the pros overreach
themselves and accept, rather than turn
down, such a circus offer as was made
recently (to play 72 holes at night un-
der the lights in Las Vegas) that they
will be in danger. Jackie Gleason him-
self reportedly is considering a 5500.000
golf tournament in Miami Beach. Not
much. Just twice Westchester. Just The
Great One putting on The Greatest One,
presumably 144 holes to be played un-
derwater in the swimming pool of the
Fontainebleau Hotel while Claude Kirk
hands out scorecards, John Wayne gives
inspirational readings and 8,000 leftover
"Rocky" campaign balloons float to the
surface. end

Behind every pitcher hurling a shutout game in this season of the vanishing hitters are plenty who threw too hard too
early in their careers. A majority are now out of baseball or recuperating in its boondocks by MARK MULVOY

SORE SPOTS IN A BIG-ARM YEAR

E very time Denny McLain chug-a-
lugs another dozen Pepsis and wins
another game, Jim Bouton of the Se-
attle Angels drinks a glass of Knox Gel-
atine and walks to the bullpen to ex-
periment with his knuckleball. Every
time Bob Gibson mercilessly strikes out
some defenseless hitter, Jim Palmer of
the Elmira Pioneers winces and thinks,
"There I was just two years ago, get-
ting ready to pitch in the World Se-
ries." And every time Don Drysdalc or
Juan Marichal shuts out a team of .193
hitters, faceless kids like Tom Fletcher
and Dennis Musgraves try a little hard-
er to fool the hitters in Denver and Mem-
phis with their slow, breaking pitches.

This year, while the McLains and Gib-
sons and Drysdales and Marichals dom-
inate the pitching revolution in the major

leagues, the Boutons and Palmers and
Fletchers and Musgraves linger obscure-
ly in the minor leagues — all trying to re-
cover from sore arms. They are only a
handful of the sore-armed victims of
present-day baseball.

Wally Bunker, 23, Don Sutton, 23,
and Gary Nolan, 20, developed bad arms
after instant success with the Orioles,
Dodgers and Reds. They still are pitch-
ing in the major leagues, but the most
any of them has been able to achieve is
five victories. Most of baseball’s other
sore-armed pitchers arc not as fortunate
as these three. For every strong-armed
Ferguson Jenkins or Luis Tiant, who
take their regular pitching rotations in
Chicago and Cleveland, there are five
Fred Newmans and Tom Kelleys and
Chuck Estradas and Art Mahaffeys and

Jerry Walkers, who savored success for
a short time and then silently faded into
the obscurity of El Paso or Waterbury,
their arms stitched up or cast in a sling.

The guilty party in most sore-arm cases
is baseball’s front office — the general
managers and club presidents who med-
itate over the best 86 Proof and seem
more obsessed with the count of the
turnstiles than the physical capabilities
of their athletes. What has happened is
this: in its haste to create instant Mc-
Lains or Gibsons or Tiants, pitchers who
win about every four days and attract
large crowds at the same time, the base-
ball hierarchy has subjected tender,
young pitching arms to intolerable pres-
sures. Management seems to operate on
the theory that if it produces one good
young pitcher and six sore-armed kids

every year, then all is well in the con-
ference room. Perhaps it is.

So the scouts sign gangs of promising
young throwers, and the front office as-
signs them to Williamsport or Aberdeen
or Sioux Falls. It does not matter that
these teams probably do not have pitch-
ing instructors or adequate medical and
training-room facilities. There are 10
pitchers on the minor league roster; the
big club hopes maybe one of them will
make it to the majors.

One pitcher usually docs — for a while,
anyway, until his arm becomes sore. In
most cases the big-league team has sim-
ply overworked an arm that was not
ready for major league ball. Consider
the records of four young pitchers.

1) Wally Bunker pitched 99 innings and
had a 10-1 record for Stockton, Calif,
in 1963. The next year he pitched 214 in-
nings and won 19 games for the Ori-
oles. In 1965 he began to complain of a
sore arm. Three years later he opened
the 1968 season at Rochester.

2) Don Sutton pitched 249 innings in
his first two seasons of pro ball in the
Dodger organization. In 1966 he was
the No. 4 starter for the Dodgers and
pitched 226 innings — winning 12 games.
He did not pitch in the World Series
that fall, however. His arm was sore.

3) Gary Nolan pitched 104 innings for
Sioux Falls in 1966, his first season as a
pro. Last year he hurled 227 innings for
the Cincinnati Reds and won 14 games.
This year, complaining of a sore and
tired arm, he has pitched 81 innings and
won five games.

4) Jim Palmer pitched 221 innings in
his first two seasons of pro ball. In 1966
he worked 208 innings for the Orioles
and beat Sandy Koufax (who pitched
only 205 innings in his first three years
as a Dodger) in the World Series. Last
year, his arm very sore, he threw for
only 83 innings. Now he is in Elmira
and thinks of becoming a first baseman.

These four pitchers managed to have
at least one outstanding year in the ma-
jor leagues. Many others have not been
that lucky. Six years ago the Tigers gave
a lefthander, Tom Fletcher, more than
S50.000 to drop out of the University
of Illinois. Fletcher pitched at Knoxville
for a few months, then in September
he was brought up to Detroit. Within
two weeks he was in Henry Ford Hos-
pital — his left side paralyzed. "I had
what they call thrombophlebitis, a dis-
ease of the veins,” Fletcher said the other

day between starts for the Denver Bears
of the Pacific Coast League. *'I couldn’t
play in 1963 because l had to wear an
elastic case that served as a blood pump
for the veins in my arm. I pumped it
300 times a day to get the blood cir-
culating."

Fletcher returned to baseball in 1964,
but his arm was sorrowfully weak. Last
month, still unable to throw hard, he
was given his release. He negotiated a
contract with Denver, a Minnesota farm
team. ‘‘The expansion draft is in the
fall," he said, "and if 1 don’t get picked
up — or if the Twins don’t invite me to
spring training — I’ll go home to Dan-
ville, III. and finish up my schooling."

Four years ago the New York Mets
gave fastballer Dennis Musgravcs more
than 5100,000 — still the largest bonus
in their history — to drop out of the Uni-
versity of Missouri. Unfortunately, Mus-
graves injured his elbow. Fortunately,
he stayed with baseball, trying to work
out his miseries as a relief specialist for
the Memphis Blues of the Texas League.

"It happened after I had pitched for
the Mets in Chicago in July of 1965,”
Musgraves said the other day. “I had
started against the Cubs and was losing ! -
0 when they took me out for a pinch hit-
ter in the seventh inning. The next day
my right elbow was so swollen I could
hardly lift it. I had an exploratory op-
eration that fall, and then in August of
1966 — a year after it all happened — they
did a do-or-die operation and took a
bone out of my elbow."

His fastball gone for good, Musgraves
now throws sharp-breaking curveballs
and off-speed pitches that he hopes will
be hit into the ground — and not over
the fences. "I know how it all happened,”
Musgraves said. "I’m sure the same thing
happens to every kid who comes down
with a bad arm. You get a chance to
pitch in the majors, and maybe you're
not really ready for it. You go up there
and try to throw everything a little too
hard. You try to throw a faster fastball,
a sharper curve. You overextend your
pitching limits, and when you do that
you throw yourself out of whack some-
place. As a result you put too much pres-
sure on your arm. And at that point of
your development, your arm can’t take
it.”

There may be a solution for all this.
Jerry Walker, considered phenomenal
as a 20-year-old in 1959 when he won
the All-Star Game for the American

League, and now the 29-year-old man-
ager of the Onconta (N Y.) Yankees of
the New York- Penn League, came down
with a sore arm after his early pitching
success. Today, as he looks back, he
thinks about what happened. "All these
kids — the kids who came up with me.
the kids like Nolan and Bunker and Sut-
ton today — all hurt their arms early in
their careers. Well, pitchers in the mi-
nor leagues must face only one or two
real good hitters in a lineup. Then they’re
called up to the majors. They pitch in a
rotation against nine good hitters — and
they aren't ready to handle the load.
They press too much, and soon their
arms are hanging. My idea is to work
them hard in the minors and let up on
them their first years in the majors."

The problem of sore arms is not con-
fined strictly to young kids. Throughout
the minor leagues veterans such as Dick
Radatz and Jim O’Toole and Jim Bou-
ton, all of whom were making 530,000
or more two or three years ago, are try-
ing to overcome various arm injuries
and survive through a few years of ex-
pansion baseball.

Bouton, in fact, now is owned by the
new Seattle team of the American
League, but he is pitching today for the
old Pacific Coast League Seattle club,
known formerly as the Rainiers but re-
cently as the Angels when they became
an affiliate of Anaheim. The Yankees
discarded Bouton a few months ago
when it became obvious that he would
never recapture the fastball that helped
him win 21 games in 1963 and then 18
more in 1964. "My pitching motion
those two years was a symphony,” Bou-
ton said the other day, "and then in
1965 it started to become violent.

"Three weeks ago I decided to be-
come strictly a knuckleballer,” Bouton
said. "Look at Hoyt Wilhelm. What’s
he, 45? I drink the Knox Gelatine be-
cause it makes my fingernails strong,
and I cut the nails of my right fingers
real square — so the ball will not rock dur-
ing my delivery. The knuckler is in the
embryo stage right now. But I’m going
to ride it back to the majors."

And Dennis Musgraves is trying to
ride back to the big leagues with a curve.
And Gary Nolan is attempting to stay
in the majors without his old fastball.
This happens when young arms turn
old, because old heads in front offices
are willing to waste a few arms for im-
mediate. seasonal success. emd

Jet-Age Slow Brummell

The first faint signs of the football and the silly seasons showed up
simultaneously: there were airliners stacked in lazy holding patterns all over
the East: trains on the Long Island Rail Road were mysteriously missing:
subways and other services were erratic. And there was the Jets' Joe Namath
handsomely reflecting this new national mood of .. . well, not exactly striking
but moving a bit slower. Namath's much-operated knees were too sore to play
the first two games, he said, so he suited up in his sideburns and stylish
blazer to serve as a spotter. Then Joe got fitted for his new double-breasted
B/ackg/ama mink overcoat. Furrier Hy Rifkin, that man tugging at the hem,
said it was a $5,000 number, although Joe did not pay that much because, after
all, one look at Namath and sportsmen everywhere will want fashionable furs.

OPEN SEASON
FOR

A TEST OF TIME

Rod Laver is threatening to make victory in open tennis his own
closed shop. He so excels the field that he soon may not have any
competition but the memory of past immortals by KIM CHAPIN

W ith Rod Laver, it is the eyes that
give away his viciousness on the
court, the cold, hollow, dilated pale
blue eyes of an anxious fighting cock.
They are not difficult to notice despite
the Australian flop hat that covers the
shock of red-blond hair and sallow face,
covers everything except the beaked, sun-
burned nose. He has the hard face and
the wiry, bowlcggcd body of a freckled
Aussie sundowner who would be more
at home on the ranch his father once
owned than on the center court at Wim-
bledon or in the stadium at Forest Hills.
But mainly it is the eyes that you return
to, especially when he is down a service
break and begins to scatter heavy, top-
spun passing shots from his position of
controlled nervousness and anger.

Pancho Gonzalez was across the net
from Laver two winters ago in the finals
of a tournament in the dank, ill-lighted
71st Regiment Armory on 34th Street
in New York City. The best-of-fivc-scl
match was even at five-all in the third
set when Gonzalez, raging across the
net, accused Laver of quick-serving. La-

LAVER, CUDDLING HIS THIRD

IBLEDON TROPHY AFTER HIS VICTORY

JULY, MAY BE THE BEST PLAYER SINCE WORLD

ver was livid, and the eyes showed in
the dim light. "I didn’t know Pancho
too well then," Laver says, “but 1 wasn't
about to back down to him. I held serve
and when we crossed over I told him,
’Pancho, if I’m serving too fast just tell
me. I’ll wait for you.’ I think he had
run out of equipment. He would have
tried anything at that point.”

It was not the right thing to try. La-
ver immediately broke Gonzalez’ serve
for the third set, then ran out the fourth
at 6-2 for the match.

“I like the competitive pressure of a
big match,” Rod Laver has said. “In
this game if you're not nervous, you’re
just not going to play well."

But the nerves do not show. In La-
ver, there is none of the extroverted fury
of Gonzalez, nor the almost shy em-
barrassment that little Ken Roscwall
displays when he breaks off a winner,
then looks down at his feet as though
he were ready to apologize for his skill.
It is his disciplined, sure violence that
will make Rod Laver (see cover), just
turned 30, in his fourth year of almost

total dominance of the game, the odds-
on favorite to win the SI 4.000 first prize
in the first $100,000 United Stales Open
Tennis Championships that begin next
week at Forest Hills. With it he will
also take another giant step toward join-
ing that elite and vaguely defined group
of players who can justly be called the
immortals of the game.

To accuse anybody of immortality is
a tricky business. Tennis has no incon-
trovertible statistics with which to mea-
sure; few of the candidates ever played
against one another in their prime. The
one criterion that docs hold up, how-
ever, is dominance of the game in a par-
ticular era, and it is for passing this test
that the most familiar nominees can be
rattled off: Gonzalez in the 1950s; Jack
Kramer in the late '40s; Ellsworth Vines,
Fred Perry and Don Budge, each suc-
ceeding the other, in the ’30s; at least
one of the French Musketeers Henri
Cochet, Rene Lacoste and Jean Borotra
— in the late ’20s; Bill Tilden before that,
and Australia's Sir Norman Brookes in
the years prior to World War I.

Laver's own era began three years ago,
in 1965. He turned professional in Jan-
uary 1963, and the following year Gon-
zalez came out of a two-year semi-re-
tirement for one of his last magnificent
flings. Laver look his knocks from both
Gonzalez and Rosewall, but that year,
1964, won both the world professional
championship at Wembley, England for
the first of four times, and his first U.S.
title, defeating Gonzalez. By 1965 he had
begun to dominate Rosewall too, and
has since been the top money-winner
among the pros, as well as their most
prolific titlcholdcr.

To give Rosewall his due, he is still
troublesome for Laver, especially on
slower surfaces, as he demonstrated ear-
lier this year when he defeated Laver in
the first open at Bournemouth, England
and in the French championships in Par-
is. Roscwall, however, is now nearing
34, and since he cannot hit outright win-
ners on his service, usually he must hit
one more shot per point than a strong-
er server, like Laver, does. Over a sea-
son the demand is telling.

continued

ROD LA VER continued

Allison Danzig, for Tour decades the
tennis writer for The New York Times ,
says, almost wistfully, “If only Rosewall
had Laver's service, plus his own ground
strokes, then you would have the all-
time great player.”

Other experts, if not ready to immor-
talize Laver just yet, will at least accept
his candidacy.

Lance Tingay, the British journalist
whose yearly world rankings arc accept-
ed as more or less official, names Til-
den, Budge. Kramer, Vines and Laver
as his top players of all time, "not in
any particular order. Laver is an out-
standing match player, has outstanding
all-round strength with a terribly good
backhand."

C. M. Jones, editor of Lawn Tennis
Magazine, says, "Vines, on the basis of
one match, is at the top. Next in order
is Budge. Then, in no particular order,
come Laver, Tilden and Kramer. La-
ver's greatest asset is his very, very rapid
speed of reaction and movement and
his excellent personal attitude toward
tennis. When he is in a tough spot, La-
ver doesn't in any way retreat. He gets
bolder and bolder and uses his wide range
of shots without fear. He has sheer brav-
ery and a beautiful sense of play."

Fred Perry, the best player in Eng-
land's history, puts Tilden "alone at the
top." Behind him come Cochet, Vines

and Budge— and Laver. “You have to
put Laver in there," says Perry. "He's
the best player since the war."

Kramer says. "I can’t rate Tilden, be-
cause he was past his prime when I saw
him. From what I have seen I'd put
Budge, Vines, Perry, Gonzalez and Bob-
by Riggs in the first echelon. I lean to-
ward Vines as the No. I man in any
given match. For overall consistency you
have to look at Budge. In another group,
just a shade below, are Frank Sedgman,
Rosewall. Lew Hoad, Ted Schroeder
and. believe it or not, Pancho Segura.
Laver is up among that second group
and vying for the first. He has no major
weaknesses."

Budge ranks Vines and Kramer to-
gether at the top, then lists Perry, Laver.
Gonzalez, Rosewall, Sedgman and
Hoad, not in any order.

"I don't get to sec very much tennis
these days," Jean Borotra explains. "But
I did watch Laver play briefly at Wim-
bledon. He was imperial!"

Rene Lacoste calls Laver's antagonist,
Rosewall, the best ever. "He is a com-
plete athlete who combines intelligence
with dexterity. After him I’d put Til-
den, with Laver third. The three are in
a class apart. All the others come in at
a good distance. Despite the handicap
of his size and weight, he is tops in ser-
vice, ground strokes and volleys."

Ken Rosewall, usually laconic, will
talk at length about the mechanics of La-
ver’s game. "He's exceptional, he's un-
orthodox and he's someone you couldn't
copy," Rosewall says. "As a champion,
his performances and court temperament
could be held up as a fine model for
young players. But his playing style cer-
tainly couldn't be. because he has shots
that few other players can produce. I
don't quite know how he does them my-
self, but it's those wristy strokes of his
that win. He has so much power in his
left forearm that it obviously gives him
a feeling of strength and confidence to
play those unorthodox shots.

"Lefties arc generally expected to have
a weakness in their backhands, but that’s
a weakness Rod doesn't have. And the
strength of his shots. Very few players
on the defensive, or when running to
make a recovery shot, can play as pow-
erfully or as quickly as Rod.”

On a key point in his championship
victory over Tony Roche at Wimbledon
last month, Roche broke off a sharply
angled forehand cross-court passing shot
that appeared to have Laver beaten. Rod
lunged for it, and not only made con-
tact but hit a winner. As if to show that
it was no fluke, he managed the exact
same thing on the following point.

But most important, perhaps, is La-
ver’s continuing enthusiasm for the game
— despite the fact that this is his 13th
year on a world circuit of one sort or an-
other. He seems shocked at the sugges-
tion that he might spend a lot of time
doing calisthenics, roadwork and other
exercises instead of practicing. "I'd rath-
er hit for three or four hours a day," he
said. "That's my practice. I love play-
ing tennis, and I’m very fortunate to be
able to make my living doing something
I like. Practice has never been a chore
for me.”

Away from a tennis court, however,
the ingrained nervous viciousness that
distinguishes him so in action dissipates
rapidly, and Laver becomes more like
something out of a Boy Scout manual —
shy, modest, honest, clean, thrifty, neat,
kind, etc.- the very composite of the all-
Australian boy.

Which indeed he was. His father Roy,
now 70, was the 13th child of a Vic-
toria farmer who moved to Queensland
seeking more land for his brood, and
when Rod was born, on August 9, 1938,
Roy and his family were working a
23,000-acrc cattle property called Lang-
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ROD LAVER continued

dale, about 90 miles from Rockhampton,
in northeast Australia. Eleven years lat-
er the Lavers moved to Rockhampton
itself, a town that is just north of the
Tropic of Capricorn. Roy, as he had
done at Langdale, built a tennis court
in his backyard, using the sandy loam
that is produced by the Hooding of the
silt-laden Fitzroy River.

All the Lavers played tennis, when
they weren’t fishing or playing a brand
of homemade cricket, but Rod, being
the youngest of three brothers, often had
to wait his turn for the court. Says Roy
Laver: "Funny thing, I always used to
say we would send somebody in the fam-
ily to Wimbledon one day. It was sort
of a family joke, but I meant it. But I
never for a moment thought it would
be Rod. His oldest brother Trevor was
the one who really was good in those
days.”

In Rockhampton, Laver came under
the tutelage of a former player named
Charlie Hollis, and Hollis, more than
anyone else, molded Laver's basic game,
especially the top-spin ground strokes
that have become so characteristic. A
member of the family remembers, "Two
hundred times a training session you’d
hear Hollis yelling at Rod, ‘Get under
the ball and hit over it — under and over,
under and over.’ ”

Rod recalls, "When I was starting out
I hit (latter, my backhand especially, but
Charlie said, ‘If you’re going to be a
great player, you’ve got to hit over the
ball.’ It’s hard to do. The strain on the
wrist and forearm is tremendous. I would
end a practice session and everything
would just ache, but the next day the
pain would be gone and 1 would feel
stronger.”

Short and frail. Rod also suffered a
bout of hepatitis as a boy so that it
took foresight to even imagine that he
would grow to 5' 8 Vi" and fill out to a
lean 150 pounds, and he was almost 18
in 1956 before at fast he was acknowl-
edged as having superior potential. Al-
though only the fifth-ranked junior in
Australia, he was selected along with
Bob Mark, the No. 1 junior, to make a
private world tour. Young Laver reached
the junior finals at Wimbledon, losing
to Ron Holmberg, but a month later he
won the U.S. junior title by beating Chris
(whatever happened to?) Crawford. He
was on his way.

"I could always fed myself getting bet-
ter," Rod says. "Not gradually, but two

or three times, almost overnight, my
game would rise— -take a tremendous
jump when everything I was working
on suddenly came together— then level
off again, then take another big jump."

Laver was 21 in 1960 when he won
his first major title, the Australian, and
the following year he took his first Wim-
bledon. In 1962 he became, of course,
the only player in history besides Budge
to win the four major world singles ti-
tles. He came home to help Australia de-
fend the Davis Cup for the umpteenth
time, and then turned professional.

The pros then were still run by Jack
Kramer, still played one-night stands like
a traveling circus and desperately need-
ed a new act. The last outstanding am-
ateurs to switch had been Roscwall and
Hoad in 1956 and 1957, and while the
amateurs were not exactly turning on
the tennis public, the pros were threat-
ening to die on the vine. "If he hadn't
joined us,” said Hoad, "we might just
as well have called it quits.”

Laver signed for SI 10,000 to be guar-
anteed over 30 months. His debut in
White City Stadium in Sydney was
against Hoad, then 28 years old and at
the peak of his game. Laver started well
and won the first set at 8-6, but Hoad,
playing with professional polish, ran out
the match, 6-4, 6-3, 8-6. The match fin-
ished around midnight. Laver had to
go right back on the court the next af-
ternoon against Rosewall, the world's
No. 1 professional. Rosewall won with
dispatch, 6-3, 6-3, 6-4. The entire month
was a disaster. Playing Hoad one night,
Rosewall the next. Laver lost all eight
of his matches to Hoad and lost 1 1 of
13 to Rosewall. Losing so consistently
was not altogether unexpected, just con-
tinually demoralizing.

"I knew I was playing badly," Laver
says. "I don't know what it was. After
1962 and the Slam and everything. I
guess I felt there was nothing else left. I
played five tournaments in December
before the Challenge Round and won
just one, and 1 shouldn’t have won that.
Newcombe and Roche beat me, and they
were just kids. In the amateurs, espe-
cially my last two years, there just weren’t
that many good players around, and I
could build up slowly to the last two or
three rounds of a tournament and ev-
erything would be O.K. But that Aus-
tralian tour — it was like playing a final
every day.

"And I had to think more in the pros

— like where a volley was going, instead
of just hitting into an open court. For
awhile it made me think about whether
I had done the right thing. Deep down
I knew I had, but sometimes I still
couldn’t help wondering.”

In the years that followed, as Laver
rose to challenge and at last supplant
Roscwall, professional tennis itself foun-
dered, as usual, on the waves of medi-
ocre promotions in the face of a spec-
tacularly disinterested public. Had not
open tennis at last been approved this
year, Laver might have, like Rosewall
before him, reached greatness in obscu-
rity. Laver, fortunately, is peaking at
the exact time when open play is bring-
ing a demonstrable resurgence and vi-
tality to the sport.

Laver and his American family — in
1966 he married the former Mary Ben-
sen, who has two children, Steven, 18,
and Ann Marie, 17, by a former marriage
• — live now in Newport Beach, Calif.,
but either there or back home in Aus-
tralia the game's new prosperity assures
the Lavers a comfortable life.

Last year he signed a five-year $500,-
000 contract with the touring group
headed by George MacCall. He has a
host of solid investments — including a
SI million resort hotel he is building
with Rosewall, Fred Stolle and Roy
Emerson in Brisbane. He endorses his
own tennis shoe and shirt, and he has
promises of more offers. The possibilities
Tor tennis are suddenly tremendous.

"I’ve always had a goal,” Laver says,
"not consciously, but in the back of
my mind. The first was to make the Aus-
tralian team, then to play, and win, at
Wimbledon, then to win the Slam.”

He could very well now become the
first professional to win the Slam. La-
ver smiled. "You’ve got to be lucky.
You've got to be healthy at the right
time, not have a bad wrist or a sprained
ankle or something like that. Let’s say
I'd be satisfied just to be able to play in
the four tournaments next year. I
wouldn't even hope for more than that."

With at least three good years still
left, the chances are, however, that La-
ver may safely hope for much more.
"He doesn't have a weakness, and I real-
ly wouldn’t have any idea as to how
somebody would set about beating him,"
Lance Tingay says frankly.

"If he goes on like this," Rene
Lacoste adds, "Rod Laver may really
become the No. 1 of all time.” end

The biggest wheeler dealer baseball ever saw was Frank Lane, who is
now an Orioles scout. He no longer swaps managers and superstars,
but remains steeped in controversy by MARK KRAM

WOULD YOU TRADE
WITH THIS MAN?

A lone in ihe cafeteria in that jazzlcss
‘ time, the two sit. watching all the
strays and hookers march by the window,
watching streets of pink and orange and
champagne-glass neon darken slowly.

"Frank. . . tell me,” says Birdie Tcb-
betts. “You been at this job awhile now.
What do you do? The days arc so empty. "

“For you,” answers Frank, "not for
me. Never for me.”

Another day, Houston on a July after-
noon. It seems a perfect place for base-
ball’s annual testimonial to itself, the All-
Star Game, that time for reflection and
planning when everyone studiously
avoids doing cither and ultimately pro-
claims: "Why. it's a Grand Old Game."
The Game is alive, too, there in a hotel
lobby, alive with bald heads nodding
earnestly behind potted palms. Well,
yes! What is happening to the empire.
The Game? There, look: two All-Stars
like that parading through the lobby
wearing Nehru jackets and beads.

If that’s not insurrection, what is?
Whatever happened to the nice, comfort-
able rebels? Like, say. the guy walking
into the lobby right now. Yeah, the one
over there, with his hair flecked with
gray, his face deeply tanned and seamed,
the one with that exploding smile. The
old rebel gains a prominent position in
the lobby and is quickly circled by old
friends and enemies, some of whom are
looking for a laugh or information, many
of whom are just looking. The one thing
all of them are doing is listening, be-
cause no one in all of civilization has
ever talked more than Frank Lane.

Lane, the former great general manag-
er and champion trader, it was plainly
audible, was alive and well in Houston.
He has also been reported in a similar
condition in Tacoma, Elmira, Guada-
lajara, any place to which a plane will

carry him. Alive and well for Lane means
being in baseball, being a part of the cul-
ture and continuity of The Game. Wal-
ter O’Malley could hunt lions and buf-
falo in Africa and Branch Rickey could
retreat to his Scriptures, but Lane nev-
er needed anything but baseball. He was,
true, once quite scholarly on the dark
interior of burlesque from Ju&rcz to
Short Vincent Street in Cleveland, but
age has now impeded that research.

“I was also once mildly interested in
golf,” says Lane, "but that didn’t last
long. I used to get so mad playing that
finally my wife said, ‘Frank, if I didn't
have any more fun than you, I’d quit.’
The next shot I took sliced and hit a
tree 60 feet away. I didn’t say a word. I
just took every club and broke them in
half. I haven’t picked up a club since."

His imperfection may have angered
him. but one guesses that he felt guilty
about diverting any portion of his con-
centration from baseball. Every part of
The Game, the irrevocable tale of the
line scores, the stretching of shadows
across the outfield, the mundane infor-
mation of the guides and other cata-
logues of data now so neatly piled on
his hotel dresser, consumes him. "I can
spend all day looking through these
books," he says. "There's something ro-
mantic in the history of all the play-
ers.” Like? "I don’t know, there's just
a feeling."

Lane is perfect for his current job.
He is a supcrscout for the Baltimore Ori-
oles, which means he flies 100, OCX) miles
each year, spends his days in hotel rooms
or cafeterias and his nights in ball parks:
he sits in the press box or some other
area (preferably where fans arc sufficient-
ly deaf or callous to his profane rag-
ing), his sharply pointed pencils and scor-
ing book in front of him, his eyes flick-
ering, his mouth flapping. Officially.

FRANK LANE continued

Lane provides the Orioles with critiques
of other clubs and scouts minor league
talent. Unofficially, he is sort of an am-
bassador, an antenna for trade talk and
devoted collector of information, much
of which is valuable and ranges from
the foibles of players (on and off the
field) to the latest bungling or power
play in baseball's high chambers.

“A guy once asked me,” says a base-
ball reporter, "why I spent so much
time with Lane. I told him I can learn
more from Lane in two minutes than I
can in two days from any other base-
ball man.”

The problem, so everyone says, is that
Frank Lane is the only scout in history
who cannot sec. "Frank often was called
a great judge of talent," says Nate Do-
lin, a former vice-president of the In-
dians, "but I don't see how he could
sec well enough to judge it. His eye-
sight was bad. but he didn’t want to
wear glasses. A drive with Lane as the
chauffeur became quite a thrill." His
ears, for years an unused pan of his anat-
omy, are not his eyes. Lane insists. "Hell,
I can sec," he says, explaining:

"That's a bum rap, but I know how
it began. It began when one day I called
this club owner up who had owed me a
large sum of money for a long time. 1
knew I would get it eventually, but I need-
ed it then. So I told him I needed it be-
cause I was going to have an eye op-
eration. The money came. Sometime
later I show up in the press box in Chi-
cago. So in comes this pitcher, who is
one of them no-windup pitchers. I nev-

er did like the idea of no windup. So
here is this pitcher warming up, and
Lee MacPhail is sitting next to me, and
I mumble, *no windup Larsen, eh?' Lee
sort of looks at me. And then 1 mum-
ble again, ‘no windup Larsen, ha!’ Lee
now has a worried look on his face,
and then I say the same thing again.
Lee finally says. ‘Frank, that's not Lar-
sen.’ I knew that. I was just cursing Lar-
sen Tor starting that stuff. Ever since,
they think I'm blind. Hell, I can see.”

O.K., but Frank Lane never relied
on his eyes anyway, and more than a
few thought his performance as a gen-
eral manager over l2'/i seasons with Chi-
cago, St. Louis, Cleveland and Kansas
City indicated as much. The trade was
his device, and they ought to put him
in Cooperstown for the way he used it.
He went to sleep with his own convo-
luted reasoning and the waiver list un-
derneath his pillow, and all he ever need-
ed when in action was an ample supply
of throat spray, a telephone, a pad and
a book full of numbers. During his ca-
reer he executed over 500 deals, some
with craft, all with desperation. The fre-
quency of his trades, whether the result
of some psychological compulsion or just
an extension of his personality, was his
strength and, at times, his weakness.

‘Tve never known anyone else,” says
a Lane watcher in St. Louis, "who sim-
ply had to trade. And the bigger the play-
er, the longer the player had been with
the club, the more excited Frank got
about making a deal for him. In the mid-
dle of a deal, Frank actually quivered.

His lips trembled. His body shook. I've
just never known anyone like him."

The exchange of players is not a sim-
ple exercise. It requires cunning, pa-
tience, occasional manufactured naivete
and a determination not to be lured away
from your original objective. 1 i other
words, if you need a shortstop do not
settle for an outfielder, even though he
is more attractive than the shortstop.
Lane seemed to possess all these qual-
ities, and he never panicked when re-
quired to handle the hairpin cu ves on
those circuitous routes that many trades
follow, where discussion might travel
over five clubs and 15 different names.
On one occasion Lane spent 36 hours
over a weekend angling for one player.

"It was Saturday," he says, "and I
was in my pajamas talking to Hank
Greenberg, and this waiter brings in my
breakfast. Then, in the afternocn, the
same waiter brings up lunch, and I’m still
on the phone. And still in my pajamas.
Later, here comes the same guy up with
dinner, and I'm still looking the s< me and
doing the same thing. Well on Sunday
morning this waiter comes up with break-
fast and there I am in the same position,
wearing pajamas and shouting into the
phone. ‘Mr. Lane," the waiter yells, step-
ping inside. ‘Mr. Lane, is something
wrong? Are you sick?’ So I says, ‘No,
just a bit punch-drunk, son.’ ”

The player, Minnie Minoso, was final-
ly landed, but such success is, if not
rare, certainly scarce. The people who
trade players are not ignorant of their
merchandise, and all of them are aware
of the elementary moves and precepts,
foremost of which is not to "come out
looking bad." Only the gambler, they
know, can get busted real good, and he
has rapidly become extinct in The Game.
Lane was a gambler, but he knew and
respected his opposition: Gabe Paul —
he wanted SI. 05 for every dollar, which
made him less difficult than John Quinn,
who always demanded SI. 10. George
Weiss— he was just interested in insulting
your intelligence. Bill DcWitt — well, he
did not sell the Reds for S7 million, a
S2.5 million profit, and still retain rights
to I5 ,r , of the stock for his son, be-
cause he was stupid. Bill Veeck — lib-
eral, imaginative and a bulldog.

Of course. Branch Rickey was the con-
summate artist. All others, including
Lane, learned from Rickey. “He was
more like the old frontier salesman,” re-
members Bill Veeck. "He would load

in the ' 50 *. when Lane ruled the waiver lists, players feared that a just a pleasant chat with Jimmy Picrsall. With club officials, like Rick
clubhouse visit must signal another trade though this time it was Ferrell and Bill Vccck, any shoptalk invariably turned to trades

his wagon down with goodies and go
from town to town, selling this short-
stop as an all-purpose defensive nostrum
and that pitcher as a specific for dou-
bleheader blues. The artist in him de-
manded that he hypnotize the customer
with his sales pitch and that when the
time finally came to close the deal he
could pull the right card out of his sleeve
— to undoubted internal applause. The
greatest proof of Rickey’s genius was
that you always knew what he was doing
— except when he was doing it to you.”

At least in one case, Rickey was prob-
ably too effective as a teacher, or per-
haps the student Lane had been unusu-
ally attentive. Rickey, with his usual bag
of good, young shortstops, stopped in
Chicago to see Lane. The two were
watching the day's game when Luke Ap-
pling. long a star but now aging rap-
idly. waved at a ground ball. Lane went
into his usual Donald Duck rage, where-
upon Rickey offered his condolences.

"Too bad. Frank, your infield is in
sad shape," said Rickey, pulling a list
of names out of his pocket. Next to
each name a price was marked: Bobby
Morgan $250,000; Rocky Bridges— a
meager $150,000 and three players. The
list was long, but down near the end
was the name of Chico Carrasquel. The
price was S50.000 and 3 players. Lane
expressed restrained interest.

"Oh, I can’t let you have Mr.
Carrasquel," said Rickey. Lane waited
patiently, until he could determine what
player Rickey really wanted to sell in Chi-
cago. It turned out to be Sam Jethroe.

The price, $250,000 and three players,
appeared to be one beyond all bounds
of civilized piracy.

Lane feigned interest in Jethroe but
admitted that his funds were limited.
“I’ll tell you,” said Lane. “Appling is
about to collapse. I can't afford your
top kids there, but give me a fair price
on Carrasquel and then I’ll have an idea
what I can give you for Jethroe." Rick-
ey and Lane agreed on a price of $25,000
and one player for Chico and that they
would meet in Buffalo at the Interna-
tional League playoffs the following
week to close the deal.

A few days later Rickey's son. Branch
Jr., stopped by Lane's office. Lane asked
him about Carrasquel and then kept talk-
ing about the deal he had made with
his father. Later, Rickey Sr. was unable
to make it to Buffalo, so Lane, acting
quickly, sent a telegram telling him he
was preparing to announce the purchase
of Carrasquel. Soon, the phone rang.

"I never made a deal for Carrasquel."
Rickey moaned. "I just talked about
him as a part of a transaction involving
Jethroe."

"Are you kidding?" Lane asked, act-
ing stunned. "Check with Branch Jr."
Rickey left the phone, talked with his
son. and returned to the phone, saying:
“All right. I don't remember it the way
you say it, but if I made an agreement
I'll live up to it."

The deal was announced, and a few
days later Rickey was on the phone
again. "All right,” he said, "now let’s
get down to business on Jethroe."

“Jethroe?” wailed Lane. “I’m not in-
terested in Jethroe. Whatever gave you
that idea?"

Says Lane: "Rickey was a lot of fun,
but of all the men I’ve tried to deal
with, the most frustrating was George
Weiss. We never made a trade. He had
some peculiar ideas.

" ‘Frank,' he'd begin, ‘we need a
pitcher. We want someone good. Like
Billy Pierce.’

" ’Sure, George, but Pierce is our ace,'
I'd counter. 'We'd want a lot in return.'

" 'Oh, you can have it, Frank,' he'd
say generously. 'You can have help at
any three positions.’

"Weiss was a reasonable man after
all. I'd think. 'Fine, George,' I’d say.
'I’d likcJoc Collins for first base. An out-
fielder, say Hank Bauer. And a catcher.
Give us Charlie Silvera.’ Then he would
say he would call me later.

"Weiss would call back. I knew that.
'That deal for the little lefthander,' he'd
start out when he called. ‘Billy Pierce.
It’s all set the way we blocked it out?'

“ ‘Sure, let’s go over the details.'

" ‘O.K.,’ he'd say. 'we get Pierce. You
need help at first base and we're send-
ing you Jack Smerf. He’s playing for
Centerville now. What a prospect!'

" ‘I asked for Collins,’ I'd remind him.

" ‘Now for your outfield,' Weiss
would continue. 'I have just the man —
Pierre Ponceby. He's in Class D at the
moment, but he's a great long-ball hit-
ter, great speed and a rifle arm.'

“ 'What about Hank Bauer?' I’d say.

" 'As for your catching problem,'

3 ?

FRANK LANE continued

as a general manager m his heyday. Lane used hotel suites mostly as glorified telephone
booths, just warm, convenient places to settle into for marathon long-distance trade discussions.

Weiss would go on, 'Slugger Nofingers
is your man. Another Bill Dickey.’

" 'But George,' I'd protest, 'I want-
ed Silvera. The guys you’re offering arc
all in the minors.’

“ ’Let me explain,’ Weiss would
quickly say.

“ 'Forget it, George,’ I'd say, quite
exhausted. ‘When did you develop a
sense of humor?' I would then hang up,
thoroughly aggravated. Weiss thought
any club should be proud to have an cx-
Yankec. even if the guy was maimed.’’

The Yankees were always a profitable
target for Lane; a feud with them al-
ways produced at the gate, and Lane
was unrelenting. "Weiss is a lonesome
man," said Lane. "He'd like to be like
Lane and Veeck, but he doesn't know
how." Casey Stengel, he said, "is like
Arthur Treacher, the actor who is the
public's conception of a butler but
doesn’t know a damn thing about but-
lering. That's Stengel. He just looks like
a manager." Lane is certain that Sten-
gel, who was himself a master at the
put-on, is still not sure whether Lane
was serious or not.

Frank was not always so jocular, nor
was he just a nice, eccentric dissident.
More often, he was an irreverent, pro-
fane disturber of the peace. He laced
into Commissioner Ford Frick for be-
ing desperately obsequious. Managers,
he reported, were not good judges of tal-
ent; they think of only one day, one
play. General managers, now— they were
much better; they see much more. The
one manager Lane respected was Paul
Richards. "Yeah," says Lane, "but I
never liked him. Richards looked out
for Richards, but nobody did his job
any better. He was tough and aloof,
and when he walked into a clubhouse it
was like a cold, sharp wind sweeping
through it.”

Lane was himself less than a favorite
of the players. His trading bruised their
thickly shelled sensitivity, and his end-
less vitriol from the stands dropped like
a thud on their egos. Lane, because of
wonderfully creative swearing that could
effectively clear whole areas of fans, of-
ten had to sit in the bleachers, or, on spe-
cial occasions in St. Louis, on the park
roof. Still. Lane was generous with his
players, although he was neither polite
nor patient with them in his negotiations.

Ray Herbert was a good example of
Lane's negotiating technique. Herbert
thought that he had always been too

easy to sign, and, after receiving one con-
tract, he wrote Lane saying as much.

"All right. I'm upset," Lane wrote
back, "so what arc you up to?" Her-
bert explained he was "up to money.”

"How's that new, comfortable home
of yours?” Lane wrote in reply.

"The home’s fine,” answered Herbert,
"but I'd really be comfortable, if you'd
give me what I deserve. If not, listen,
how about trading me for a couple of
Class B pitchers?"

"I would," Lane wrote back, "but
I'm not sure which Class B pitchers I
can get." Exasperated at last. Lane end-
ed communications with Herbert, say-
ing: "Look, sign this contract, hang it
on the wall, or tear it up." A few days
later Lane opened an envelope and the
pieces of Herbert's contract fell out.

Lane says now: "I always did what I
had to do. That's why I like Ulysses
Grant. He did what he had to do. He
was human. He had courage. All those
jealous Union generals tried to block
his moves, but he had his say. To Lin-
coln or anybody." Such boldness and
individualism, particularly in baseball,
is often alienating. His colleagues soon
concluded that Lane was, as someone
once said of Disraeli, “a self-made man
who worships his creator.” He was also
viewed as a destructive vagabond, a
mountebank and, finally, a failure, be-
cause he never won a pennant. Yet Lane,

despite his volatility and undisciplined
emotions, was one of baseball’s finest
general managers. Busted or lifeless fran-
chises were Lane's specialty, and resus-
citation was always quick and profitable.

Lane was president of the American
Association when Chuck Comiskey
asked him to take command of the White
Sox. It was the one job in baseball no-
body wanted, and Frank was warned
of the problems: Chicago, then in eighth
place, had never drawn a million peo-
ple in its history; the White Sox were
financially impoverished. In his first year
Lane traded or waived 38 of the 40 play-
ers on his roster, and during his seven
years with Chicago he made 241 deals
involving 353 players; he acquired Min-
nie Minoso, gave up Catcher Aaron Rob-
inson for Billy Pierce and Catcher Joe
Tipton for Nellie Fox.

These three players, plus the hiring
of Manager Paul Richards, made the
Sox a contender. Lane broke with Chi-
cago when Chuck Comiskey, listening
to people who thought Lane was re-
ceiving too much credit, failed to back
him up in a violent dispute with Com-
missioner Frick. When he left, Chicago
was healthy, the franchise value (worth
$6 million) had been doubled.

St. Louis, which was losing money,
was the next stop for Lane. Gussie Busch,
disappointed with the ineffectiveness of
his farm system, told Lane he had no re-

strictions. Only one player was not to
be touched: Stan Musial. "I never tried
to trade Musial,” Lane declares now,
“no matter what anybody says. That is
one of the great myths in baseball." He
did trade the revered Red Schoendienst
(among a few dozen others). "Hell, the
way they carried on there, you’d a
thought I killed Schoendienst," he says.

Lane moved the Cardinals up in the
standings and brought the people
through the gate; the Cards climbed from
seventh to fourth in 1956, and the next
year lost the pennant in the last two weeks
of the season. He left St. Louis in 1958,
tired of the brewery intrigue and politics,
grown irritated at the intrusion of brew-
ery officials and a corresponding loss of
his own power. “Gussie Busch," he says,
"is one of the grandest guys anyone
would want for a boss — but I couldn't
convince him a ball club can't be run like
a brewery business."

Goodby St. Louis, hello Cleveland.
Horse racing and an uninspiring ball
club bad been taking large chunks out
of the Indian attendance. Lane's con-
tract stipulated that he would receive
5c for every fan over 800,000. Also a
new Cadillac. Lane prospered and so
did the Indians, but it was a tempes-
tuous relationship. Under Lane, the In-
dians moved from sixth place to fourth
in 1958 and then finished five games
out of first place in 1 959 — and Lane man-
aged to jolt the sensibilities of everyone.
He committed the unspeakable act of
trading Rocky Colavito a local patron
saint who induced substantial ardor —
he fired and rchired Joe Gordon, his
manager, during a pennant race; and
then in I960 he swapped managers with
Detroit, Gordon for Jimmy Dykes.
"Even though both of them desired the
trade,” says Lane, in a blush of remorse,
"I was never proud of that one." He
left Cleveland after the 1 960 season, lured
away by a cigar-smoking, frenetic in-
surance man.

The alliance between Charlie Finley
of the A's and Lane was comedic, but
it was also the sudden denouement of
Frank Lane. The negotiations between
Finley and Lane were beautiful. Lane,
hitting point by point, began by request-
ing a four-year contract with an option
at half pay as a consultant. Next, he de-
manded a fantastic salary and an elab-
orate capital-gains arrangement. And by
the way, Charlie, "How about a new El-
dorado Cadillac every second year?”

"You got it all," said Charlie. ' One
thing, though. How about settling for
a 300SL Mercedes-Benz convertible?
That’s first class. It goes faster than
you can talk. I also want you to drive
around wearing a SI 00 10-gallon hat.
So everybody sees you."

Fine, Charlie. "We're in business,"
said Frank.

The top executive in baseball, as Fin-
ley proclaimed at the time, was fired
eight months, 22 days, three hours, 18
minutes and six seconds later. Finley
was suspicious and untrusting, said Lane,
and he demanded subservience — some-
thing Lane could never give. “I think,"
said Finley, “it’s most appropriate for
a mule to answer someone like Lane.”
Lane was out of baseball now, and
brooded in Acapulco at the expense of
Finley. Finally, Finley made an effort
to stop paying him, and Lane sued. Fin-
ley claimed Lane was not actively seek-
ing employment.

Lane had trouble finding anyone to
testify for him at the trial. Owe exec-
utive. who had worked for Finley, vol-
unteered to appear but he never did,
claiming later: “Why, Frank, I have to
deal with Finley." Only Bill Veeck took
the stand for Lane. Lane testified that
he had sought employment while in Mex-
ico. "I wrote to all my friends looking
for a job," Lane testified, "but only a
couple answered." Did Lane turn down
a broadcasting job in Kansas City, Bill
Veeck was asked? "Well, let me say this,”
Veeck replied. "If I were hiring broad-
casters, Frank Lane would be the last
man I'd want near a mike." Veeck's tes-
timony was powerful, and it was not
long before Finley and Lane reached a
settlement — in Lane's favor, but he
would never achieve any position of
power again. He would never make
any more trades.

Small bursts of lightning move across
the window of a small hotel room in
Houston. The Spoiling News, with all
its gray minutia, is on the bed. "I was
reading it until 4 this morning," says
Frank Lane. Next to the phone is a
scratch pad covered with doodling. On
the dresser are the little books filled with
tiny figures and names, the language of
his life. Lane talks, but he is evasive, cau-
tious now. "Finley," he says, "is a nice
man. It's just that he is like a man who
builds a house right down to the small-
est of his specifications and then goes

and throws rocks through the windows.
The worst thing I ever did was listen to
him, go to work for him. But if I worked
for him again. I'd con him."

His words drone on, your mind wan-
ders. The last dramatic trade in base-
ball, you remember, was the one involv-
ing Frank Robinson back in 1965. Lane
is a relic, you think; his kind of front-
office baseball is no more. Now the image
of I.anc standing in the lobby waves
through the mind. He just goes from
town to town, telling all of his old sto-
ries and campaigning for The Game
his last hustle.

His daily routine is rigid: up at 6 a.m.,
deep-breathing exercises, breakfast.
Then, later to the ball park and back to
the hotel room, where he works on his
reports. The pencil moves slower these
days, but his remarks remain sharp:
"Bad in the clubhouse;" “the only
reason this guy is used is because nine
players are required.” Yes, you think, he
is J. Henry Waugh, Prop., the character
who oversees a whole imaginary base-
ball world in Robert Coover's novel The
Universal Baseball Association , Inc.

"I'm really lucky," Lane says, after
once again insisting that he never did
try to trade Stan Musial. "I'm lucky to
still be in baseball. It's a helluva game.
A grand game." end

h. r

AS A LONELY scout, Lane no longer can
trade players but instead only catalog them.

OLYMPIC PREP
ON THE PEAKS

After much ado about attitude, everyone has pretty much agreed that
if they hope to win medals in Mexico, 1968 Olympians had better head
for the hills to train. The Russians have repaired to their slopes,
Americans to Lake Tahoe— both of which are fine— but the French ha ve
come up with the most flamboyant camp of all, the Lycee Climatique
et Sportif et Centre d'Entrainement en Altitude, a lavish, $8 million
Sweat Socks Hilton in the sky. During September some 500 athletes
from 22 nations wilt be registered at Font-Romeu, roughly 550 miles
south of Paris and perched atop the Pyrenees at 6,070 feet. High
in the crisp pine forests, with an unlimited horizon, Font-Romeu
features gymnasiums, tracks in all sizes, plus facilities for fencing,
shooting, tennis, riding, diving, soccer, everything to train any team—
all grouped around a sprawling fortress of structures faintly medieval
in mood, like the main dorm at right, where French cyclists are
strolling off to a workout. And when October's athletes leave, Font-
Romeu will go on, as a secondary school, as an educational haven for
asthmatics and as a kind of permanent sports prep — whose glamorous
Class of '68 will remember that getting there was half the fun.

PHOTOGRAPHS BY MARTINE FRANCK

The handsome 12-story central
building, which is mostly dormi-
tories, rises dramatically against
a setting of wooded ridges and
the distant peaks of the Pyrenees.
Bulldozing, kept to a minimum
and utilizing as much as possible
the natural contours of the land,
established areas for a soccer
field, a 400-meter track, a second,
smaller track, a training area for
field events, and outdoor volley-
ball, tennis and basketball courts.

and

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French rowers sweep across
the rooftop of France on the
high-level Lac des Boui/louses
— where each training lane is
a mile and a quarter straight-
away — while a band of runners
{below) starts a daily cross-
country workout at the 1,800-
meter mark on the mountain-
side that overlooks the camp.

Sometimes a fella really needs
a friend. Help us help.

When disaster strikes, it isn't picky. It hits women It hits kids like
these. It could hit you. Wherever it hits, your Red Cross is there.
With food. With clothing, shelter and medical help. In a single year,
your Red Cross came to the aid of nearly 573.000 disaster victims —
people like you who weren't so lucky. This year. too. people will need
a friend like your Red Cross That means we need you and your sup
port The American Red Cross.

help
us
help

'p.

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Ever since they were in-
troduced a few years ago,
wide track tires have been
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Why not. They corner
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The only problem has
been that some of them don't
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Now Armstrong introduces
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a long, long time.

Fatso is really built. Underneath
his thick rubber hide, and above his
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(A firm, tough tread means less abrasion, less
scuffing and squirming of rubber against the road. In

short, it means a cooler
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We tested Fatso for
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he came out on top in all
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PEOPLE

Detroit ballplayers are used to
the presence of concert pianist
Eugene Istomin at Tiger Stadium
and at spring training in Lake-
land, Fla. He's a crazy, mad De-
troit fan even though he was
brought up in New York — and
skipped practice sessions when
his team came to town. Even the
umpires became aware of Isto-
min's obsession; the laic Billy
Evanscalled him "Fingers. "Last
spring when Istomin had an en-
gagement in Tampa, it was pure
torture for him to be that close
to — yet that far from — the Ti-
gers' camp. "So I went to Lake-
land," he says, "and had my
Steinway shipped there so I
could practice in the hotel when
1 wasn't watching the team prac-
tice on the field.” Now, ap-
parently, Istomin has begun to
proselyte in the music world.
The other day he posed Cellist
Pablo Casals for a picture — in a
Detroit baseball cap.

Mike Pearson was a pretty fair
semipro ballplayer who never-
theless managed to make more
of a name for himself as Lester
Pearson, Prime Minister of the
Dominion of Canada and 1957
Nobel Peace Prizewinner, Still,
Pearson often said that when he
left the highest office in the land
the job he would most like to
hold would be manager of a ma-
jor league team. Last week, in
addition to being given a spe-
cial mission by the World Bank, i
he fulfilled at least part of that
ambition when the owners of the
new Montreal franchise appoint-
ed him honorary chairman.
Beaming ruddily, wearing a
bright bow tie and red carnation,
Pearson accepted the post "as
an ordinary Canadian who loves
baseball." He said that he had
laid down only one condition —
"that I be allowed to go to spring
training." Looking forward to
the warm Florida sunshine, he
volunteered to help out in any

way, such as carrying bats or
suggesting strategy. "Now that
Pm no longer in politics,” he ex-
plained, "I know all the answers
to everything.''

To baseball fans, hot dogs arc
nearly as sacred as the game it-
self, and a move to allow the ad-
dition of chicken to the standard
mix (whatever that may be) has
irked Betty Furness, the Presi-
dent's special assistant for con-
sumer affairs, no end. What will
we call them at the ball park?
Betty wonders: "Franklychicks?
Chicken-franks? Chickenfur-
ters?” And how about the sales
pitch? "Get 'em while they're
hot chicks ”

♦ Film critics seldom rave over
Charlton I lesion's acting, but his
ability to live through a typical
Heston role has made him a leg-
end. There were no stand-ins for
the famous chariot scene in Ben

Hur, or when Heston played Mi-
chelangelo laboriously painting
the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel
in The Agony and the Ecstasy.
But his latest role, that of a pro-
fessional quarterback in a movie
titled Pro, may have posed the
ultimate challenge. Heston is
cast as Bill Kilmer, playmaker
of the New Orleans Saints, and
the old warrior plays through
the game sequences. His con-
clusion: "Learning to play quar-
terback is tougher than learning
to drive a chariot." George
Plimpton would agree — and he
did his stint with the Lions. But
with the Saints — shut the gate,
Peter!

® Olympic gold medals in figure
skating and skiing this year went
to pretty Peggy Fleming and
dashing Jean-Claude Killy; ev-
eryone knows that, except, it
seems, the postage-stamp de-
signers of the Mutawakelite
Kingdom of Yemen, an exiled
government in Saudi Arabia.
In a stamp series with drawings
of athletes, the Yemenites made
these bizarre gold-medal goofs:
the figure skater, in frilly red
sleeves and short skirt, is
captioned Wolfgang Schwartz

(men's figure skating winner
Wolfgang Schwarz., apparent-
ly); the skier, obviously male, is
captioned Peggy Fleming; a
drawing of the three-man bob-
sled team is titled Olga Pall
(women's downhill winner); one
tough-looking male hockey
player is Marielle Goitschel
(women's slalom winner) and
another, stick down and skates
(not skis) slashing the ice, is
none other than Jean-Claude
Killy.

Playwright Arthur Miller is not
usually thought of as a sporting
type, and so it was at least a
small surprise when he stood up
to read a short new playlet — The
Reason Why — last week at a
party-rally of artists and writers
for Senator Eugene McCarthy
at the Cheetah in New York,
normally a teen-agers' night-
club. The playlet was about
woodchuck hunting. Rather,
that's what it was about on the
surface. But the crowd quickly
caught on that Mr. Miller was in
fact expressing his opinions on
gun control and on the war in
Vietnam. He is in favor of the
former and very much opposed
to the latter.

sailing / Hugh Whall

Don't tower the boom , just move the mast

For a gadget that might not even work and failed its first test, those floppers still managed to create a
new flap as the 5.5-meter men launched their Olympic race trials in the customary air of controversy

It was a sure bet that the 5.5-meter
• sloops — those exotic, ornery orphans
of the racing world — would sail smack
into a storm of argument the minute
someone got enough of them together
to stage a showdown. Controversy has
been closing in on this class for years,
threatening to wipe it out entirely,
like the six-meter before it. And. sure
enough, when 17 5.5s checked in at
Newport Beach. Calif, last weekend
there were all the signs that this Olym-
pic trial session might be the climactic

NEW "flopper oevice moves the mast
sideways to give the sails a better profile.

point that everyone has been predicting.

The 5.5-meter men make for a tense
scene by themselves — but this time there
were a few new twists and turns to the
plot. For one thing, the 5.5s are stub-
bornly known as a "development” class,
unlike those other Olympians, the Stars,
Finns, Flying Dutchmen and Dragons,
in which the boats are almost identical
and top premium is placed on the skill
and stamina of the crew. In the 5.5s the
designers are just about as vital as the
men who make the boats go. Within
the limits of a complicated rule system,
they are free to fiddle and experiment
with hull shapes and rigs all the way to
the limits of the client’s pockctbook. The
result of all this is that no one 5.5 sloop
looks like another, a situation that makes
Olympic officials uneasy, and boats are
remembered more by their shapes than
their names.

Of all the innovations introduced at
Newport Beach there was one that stirred
up just about as much fear as the pos-
sibility that someone is going to stamp
out the whole class. It is a new device —
a complicated system of gauges and
valves — that might not only revolution-
ize 5.5 sailing, it might set the entire sail-
ing world on its beam. That is, if the
International Yacht Racing Union al-
lows it. And it may do just that.

The device is installed just below deck
and, in effect, it allows the entire length
of the mast to be cocked not fore and
aft, which is an old maneuver -but side-
ways. Worked hydraulically, it thus per-
mits the rig to cant upwind even though
the press of breeze is heeling the boat it-
self downwind. Advantages are all too
clear: not only are the sails presented
to the wind constantly at their best pro-
file, but the boat is also given what
amounts to additional ballast.

To the rather tense envy of those who
didn’t have it, three 5.5s were outfitted
with the gear, called variously a "can-
ter” or a "flopper." There were Lowell

North’s Luv, Scott Allan’s Outta Sight
and Al Casscl's Savage. North and Al-
lan both turned up with an effective but
comparatively simple apparatus built of
surplus pumps, a ground-down trailer
hitch (in the case of Outta Sight) and
other bits and pieces linked together.
But Savage carried the most sophisti-
cated and, at 115 pounds, the heaviest
canter. As someone said at dockside, it
looked like it might have cost $10,000
and been built by Boeing.

Cassel waited until a crowd of cu-
rious boaters had dispersed, then dem-
onstrated his secret weapon. "The en-
gineer sits here,” he said, propping one
foot on a small stainless-steel tank fit-
ted with a handle. He leaned over and
pumped it vigorously and then twisted
two valves on a neat control panel. Pres-
to! He made the mast and stays tilt first
one way, then the other. "You see,”
said Cassel, "instead of having the crew
hike out as usual — you simply pump the
mast to windward a degree or two.”

And while Cassel was given little
chance to win the trials — everybody was
betting his mechanism was too heavy—
the swaying masts stirred up sailors for
miles around. Principal objection from
rival skippers was not that the flopper
was an illegal mechanism but that it
was tantamount to giving the boats the
movable weight of a fourth man as bal-
last. "Hell, it’s like having a 250-pound
man sitting out to weather,” grumbled
one crewman.

In a spirited effort to head them off
at the mast before the races began, tele-
grams were fired off to New York, Scot-
land and anywhere else the ranking mem-
bers of the union might be found. The
first answers only fueled the tension; as
far as anyone could see. there was no
rule that barred such mast-floppers.

By the time the boats sailed out Sun-
day for the first key test everyone was
in various stages of despair. Shackles,
masts, booms and, in one case, a whole

continued

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SAILING continued

boat were missing — misplaced in, of all
places, St. Louis.

The only scant comfort, in the hours
leading up to the first trial, was the sta-
tistical fact that, for all their difference
in design and rig, most 5.5s end up re-
markably evenly matched. “It really pays
to take the start," said North, a three-
time world champion in the Star class
and a bronze medalist in the Dragons
at Tokyo. ‘‘These boats arc not like
Stars, where you can build a lead. In
the 5.5s you’ve got to fight for every-
inch you gain."

In fact, chief criticism aimed at the
5.5s, North pointed out, was their cost.
They demand great wardrobes of sails,
spare and often exotic spars and custom-
built fittings. The result is that many sail-
ors are disturbed by growing costs in
the class and the emphasis on design,
plus the fact that few regattas are sched-
uled for the 5.5s. There is a feeling that
many in the rank and file of sailing will
convince the union to replace the class
in the 1972 Olympics with a more dem-
ocratic, cheaper, less sophisticated boat.

The new Luv, for example, cost North
and Peter Peckham some SI 5,000, in-
cluding design fee, tank testing, sails and
rigging. But not far away sat Lady Lack,
a strange-looking vessel concocted by
MIT's Dr. Jerry Milgram. Her cost was
said to be in the S70.000 range.

All the boats on the Newport Har-
bor Yacht Club line were about 3% fast-
er than the boats of a year ago, said
Britton Chance Jr., a 28-ycar-old who
designed II of the 17 entries. Chance,
who many predict will be the next Olin
Stephens when that peerless yacht de-
signer retires, firmly maintained that
5.5s ‘‘are only as expensive as you want
to make them.” And, discounting the
fact that he has more at stake than any-
one else, he feels that the class deserves
to live on its merits.

“A hell of a lot more innovation has
come out of this class than, say, the 12-
meters," he said. ‘‘Small keels, modern
high-aspect -ratio rigs Mylar spinna-
kers. all came from the 5.5s.”

And Newport Beach did, indeed, look
like a designer's dream. There were rec-
tangular keels, delta keels, scimitar rud-
ders. rudders like airplane flaps, masts
with holes all over them, flat booms,
round and oval booms — and several
boats with hard ridges running almost
the length of their topsides, thus per-

mitting a low wetted surface. All were
aimed, in their own way, at the light
airs of Acapulco, where the survivor will
fight it out for Olympic medals.

And so, masts tuned, sails picked, bot-
toms polished slickly, what may be the
last Olympic trials the 5.5s will ever ex-
perience got under way.

Sailor North had been looking at the
skies and had mused, “I think a con-
trollable mast helps in a breeze, but not
so much in light air. In fact, we may
not even use it.”

But when Sunday afternoon came up
washed in bright sunshine — complete
with light air and a long swell — North
decided to go for the gadget. So did
Cassel; only Allan elected to go for an
old-fashioned sail.

And when it was all over, the only con-
clusive finding seemed to be that the
role of the flopper is still uncertain, and
that the 5.5-metcr men would have to
continue worrying about it through the
entire week of trials. For one thing.
North made a poor start and never over-
came the handicap, finishing fifth. Allan
and Cassel also finished far down the
fleet.

The winner and leader from start to
finish was a tense, up-tight gentleman
named Gardner Cox, aided by an all-
star combination of champion dinghy
skipper Dr. Stuart Walker and 12-me-
ter hand and sailing instructor Steve Col-
gate. Nervousness aside, Cox is a sail-
or’s sailor; he was three-time interna-
tional champion in Penguin dinghys and
despite the fact he is a newcomer to the
sophisticated 5.5s he became U.S. cham-
pion of that class this year.

Ahead of all of them lay six more gru-
eling races on the route to selecting one
of the boats to represent the U.S. in Mex-
ico, and there was every chance that
the competition, when it settled down,
would get tougher.

For all the sunshine and ideal con-
ditions it was hard for some experts on
the scene to shake a faint feeling of
gloom. Consider Dr. Britton Chance,
father of the young designer, who won
a gold medal in the 5.5s in 1952. A
man whose whole metabolism seems to
depend on the existence of the class, he
watched the regatta start and observed
philosophically, “Well, the 5.5 was born
an Olympic boat. It may as well die an
Olympic boat." Which it very probably
will. end

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bridge / Charles Goren

Three double

takes on a Spingold s/am

“The Summer National Championships in Minneapolis
were the last to drag on for nearly two weeks, and no
one, not even the winners of the final event, will be sorry.
Competition started on a Friday and ran for 13 days and
800 boards before George Rapee's team defeated B. Jay
Becker's squad in the Spingold finals. Beginning next
year the Nationals will end on the second Sunday, alle-
viating the exhaustion in evidence at Minneapolis.

Young players made their presence felt in the Spingold
as never before. Mike Becker and Steve Altman, both 24
and members of the Becker team, were the youngest pair
ever to reach the final, and Milt Rosenberg of Chicago,
who reached the semifinal, is a year younger. Five of the
others in the semifinal were around the 30 mark and, with
only Becker and Rapee in the elder statesman category,
the average age of the last four teams was the lowest ever.

NORTH EAST

(Swanson) ( Murray )

14 PASS

2* PASS

34 PASS

3 N.T. PASS

5V PASS

PASS PASS

SOUTH WEST

(Walsh) (Kehela)

14 PASS

1 N.T. PASS

2 N.T. PASS

3* PASS

4 N.T. PASS

SA PASS

Rosenberg’s team found the experience of the Rapee
squad too much to handle in the semifinal, losing by 92
points, but one of the losers had the satisfaction of mak-
ing a slam that needed good bidding and skillful play.

Dick Walsh of Los Angeles bid his way up to six clubs
by an unorthodox route. After the one-no-trump rebid,
North’s bid of two diamonds would be weak in standard
methods, but it was forcing in the style of this partnership
and made a careful slam exploration possible.

West led a trump against six clubs and Walsh had a dif-
ficult planning problem. The obvious route was to ruff
two hearts in dummy, but Walsh was short of entries to
the closed hand and would run into an overruff when he
tried to ruff the third round of spades low in his hand.

The natural play was to win the first trick in dummy,
but South won in his hand. This was a slight error, but it
nevertheless gave him the opportunity to make a spec-
tacular play at the second trick. He led the diamond 10
away from his ace, spuming the diamond finesse, with the
idea of forcing out the diamond king immediately and
keeping control of the hand.

West took his diamond king and returned the club eight,
leaving dummy with only one trump for ruffing purposes.
But one ruff was enough for the declarer. He won the
trump lead with dummy’s jack, cashed the heart and spade
aces and ruffed a low spade. A heart was ruffed with dum-
my’s remaining trump, and the closed hand was reentered
with the diamond ace.

Walsh drew the missing trumps and claimed his slam,
announcing that he would discard the two remaining heart
losers on the diamond and spade winners in dummy. He
made, in all, five trump tricks in his hand, one ruff in
dummy, one heart, two spades and three diamonds for a
total of 12 tricks.

During the next deal Kehela was dummy and began to
wonder whether he would have beaten the slam by re-
fusing to take his diamond king at the second trick. Anal-
ysis showed that he would not, for South would then have
discarded a diamond on the second round of spades and
crossruffed in the red suits. By careful timing he could dis-
card his fourth heart on the fourth diamond in dummy
and West would make the defense's only trick by ruffing.

Three days later, the analysts pointed out that Kehela
would have beaten the slam by winning the diamond king
and returning a diamond, forcing South to use a diamond
entry prematurely. But, the contract could always be made
by winning the first trick in dummy, cashing the heart ace
and leading to the diamond 10. end

‘‘My secret?

Be an absolute nut about starting a Collins right.

The fruit has to be fresh. And the gin has to be perfect.”

Nut or not, it makes sense.

A Tom Collins is one of those drinks that can be enormously rewarding.
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In Transportation • Communications • Chemistry • Space

tennis / Kim Chapin

T he main reasons for the considerable
charm and appeal Davis Clip play
holds for people, whether or not they
are outright tennis fans, are that the com-
petition is sufficiently old (the first Chal-
lenge Round was held in 1902), suffi-
ciently amateur and sufficiently tradi-
tion-encrusted to please the establish-
mentarian instinct. It is also a sporting
event with true worldwide participation.
This year 49 nations entered teams in
one of four zones — two European, one
Asian and one American to determine
which will challenge Australia, the pres-
ent cup holder, in December. Finally,
and perhaps most significantly, it pro-
vides the closest approximation in sports
to the star system. Give a country — no
matter how small — one super player, and
it is ready to challenge the world.

The United Stales has become quite
aware of this in the past eight years.
Since 1959— except for 1963, when we
won the ornate sterling cup from the Aus-
sies, and 1964, when we graciously re-
turned it — all sorts of upstart nations
have kept the U.S. from the Challenge
Round. Italy did it in I960 and 1961.

Then came Mexico in 1962, Spain in
1965, Brazil in 1966 and, last and least,
Ecuador in 1967.

But last week, under the new man-
agement of Captain Donald Dell (SI,
June I0)and in the unlikely surroundings
of Roxboro Junior High School in Cleve-
land Heights, Ohio, we took the cup
again. Practically speaking, anyway.
Going into the weekend, the original list
of 49 nations had been narrowed to five —
West Germany, India, Japan. Spain and
the United States. Coming out, the list
was down to four. West Germany has
yet to play cither India or Japan, but
the United States had defeated Spain
and earned the right to meet the sur-
vivor of the other half of the Interzone
draw. Next will come the Challenge
Round in Adelaide and, unfortunately
for the Aussies, the three players who
defended last year John Newcombe,
Roy Emerson and Tony Roche — are now
professionals. Unless Captain Harry
Hopman manages the most amazing feat
of his career with the likes of Ray Ruf-
fles, Bill Bowrey and Barry Phillips-
Moore, the cup will come back to the

It looks
like our cup
again

nation which donated it in the first place.

Spain, far superior to West Germany,
Japan or India the reason why last
week's tic was so important — showed
up in Cleveland with its star, Manuel
Santana, who has been playing in cup
competition with profound success for
10 years, and Santana's support, Juan
Gisbert, who beat Dennis Ralston in
four sets in 1965 during the U.S. -Spain
match that Spain won and earlier this
year was graduated from the University
pf Barcelona law school. From the time
that the draw was made on Thursday

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afternoon it was obvious that for Spain
to win, Santana would have to take his
two singles matches and somehow car-
ry Gisbcrt through to a victory in the
doubles match that provides the fifth
point in Davis Cup play.

The two singles players Dell nomi-
nated were the two who reached the semi-
finals of the first open Wimbledon ear-
lier in the summer: Clark Gracbner, who
grew up in Beach wood, Ohio, just
around the comer from Cleveland
Heights; and Arthur Ashe, the slender
(“I’ve never had an injury in my life;
there's not enough muscle on me for any-
thing to go wrong”), phlegmatic Army
lieutenant from Richmond. In reserve,
Dell had Charlie Pasarcll of Puerto Rico,
who had beaten Graebner in the finals
of the Eastern Grass Court Champion-
ships at South Orange, N.J. two weeks
earlier and had carried Ken Rosewal),
the world's No. 2-ranking player, to five
sets at Wimbledon.

Before play began Dell was optimistic
but politely cautious. Ralston, who is
now a professional and the U.S. coach,
said, "This should be easy. Gisbert is
no problem. But anything can happen.
One guy can raise his game, another
can get nervous, or lose co ncentralion-
anything.” Spanish Captain Jaime Bar-
troli said simply, "We need points from
everybody. "

The first match of the lie put Graeb-
ner against Santana. The former ball
boy from Madrid is now 30 surely not
ancient — and still a master on slow sur-
faces. The courts at the 6,200-scat Har-
old T. Clark Stadium at Roxboro Junior
High are fast a composition called Ten-
ni-FIcx on an asphalt base — but the
Spaniard played as if he were back home
on the soggy European clay. He served
few aces, but gained control of the points
by alternately serving wide to Gracbner.
who does not move well, then hand-
cuffing Graebner with a service right at
him. Then he followed with deft, ac-
curate ground strokes and sharply an-
gled volleys.

For his part, Gracbner, who had beat-
en Santana in straight sets at Wimbledon,
was nowhere near the peak of his game,
and said bluntly after the match. "I
played pretty bad, didn't I?" During the
first set and until midway into the sec-
ond he only occasionally bothered to
follow his service to the net, mainly be-
cause there was nothing to follow, His

first service went in only 54 r ', of the
time, and Santana was able to return
the second with ease. The match ended
quickly, and for Graebner disastrously,
6-2, 6-3, 6-3.

Ashe and Gisbert were next up. Like
Santana, Gisbert is at his best on slow
clay (the surface, incidentally, on which
the U.S. has been defeated in every year
beginning with 1961) but, unlike San-
tana. he cannot adjust away from it.
This match ended quickly, too — in
Ashe's favor, c-2, 6-4. 6-2 — and the se-
ries was tied 1-1.

The doubles on the second day. then,
became what everybody figured it would
be: the crucial match of the tie. And
both captains used their prerogative and
did not announce their player selections
until one hour before the match was to
begin. On the way to the Interzone semi-
final. which included Spanish victories
over The Netherlands, Sweden, Great
Britain and Italy, Santana had played
twice with Luis Arilla, a 10-ycar cup vet-
eran. once with Manuel Orantes, just
turned 19, and had sat out one match.
The logical choice was Santana-Arilla,
but during practice earlier in the week
Arilla had pulled a leg muscle, forcing
Bartroli to choose Gisbert and to keep
Orantes, an unknown quantity in ma-
jor competition, on the sidelines.

Dell and Ralston did not decide on
their choices until late on the night of
the first day, and finally picked Pasarell
and Graebner. The other possibility was
Bob Lutz, who had actually looked the
best of the Americans in doubles play,
but, like Orantes, was untested. In ear-
lier ties against the British West Indies,
Mexico and Ecuador, Lutz had played
twice with Stan Smith and once with
Graebner, but in all three instances the
United States had had 2-0 leads at the
end of the first day.

Graebner needed the match to restore
his somewhat frayed confidence and to
work out the problems with his service,
and Pasarell was picked because, when
he chooses, he is the most tenacious and
gutty player in the country. “All I want
to do is win,” he said. “I don't care if
we look good, bad or indifferent doing
it. I just want to win.”

The Americans were heavily favored
in the doubles but. surprisingly, that
match turned out to be the best of the
tic. Perry Jones, now 81 and the person
most responsible for the tremendous

continued

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TENNIS ronilnufd

amount of tennis talent produced in
Southern California for decades, said lat-
er, “This was one of the most inter-
esting doubles I’ve seen in 50 years.”

Gracbner went into the match still
worried about his service. "You know
how big a part of my game it is," he
said. “This morning during practice it
was still terrible.” Gracbner needed eight
points to hold service his first time up,
but, as it turned out, did not lose it the
entire afternoon.

The first set went to Spain 13-11, and
it is fortunate Pasarell had such a self-
effacing attitude toward his game, be-
cause while serving at set point, in the
24th game of the set, he double-faulted.
That was bad enough, but it was more
the way he did it. After missing his first
service, as he said, "I threw the ball up
wrong, the wind [a considerable 17 mph]
carried it away from me and I choked.”
He barely made contact with the ball
and it sailed, like a knuckleball, not only
over the net but over a surprised Gis-

bert, a shocked Santana and an indif-
ferent baseline umpire in the general di-
rection of Lake Eric.

The second set was even longer— 32
games— but chinks were developing in
the Spanish armor. The obvious Amer-
ican strategy was to play Gisbcrt, but
he was difficult to find Santana was ev-
erywhere. exhorting himself, exhorting
Gisbcrt and occasionally running from
sideline to sideline on consecutive shots
while Gisbcrt watched the action only
as an interested observer. Santana
poached whenever he could, and this,
of course, often left his sideline unpro-
tected while Gisbert was serving.

In the 31st game of the set, with Gis-
bert behind 15-30, Pasarell went for that
sideline and passed Santana to give the
Americans two break points. They only
needed one. Pasarell held his service for
the set, and even Dell, who had not
been too sure up to that point, permit-
ted himself a smile. The second set was
the key to the match, and the match — 1 1 -

13, 17-15, 7-5, 6-2 — the key to the tie.
It had taken three hours, 45 minutes.
422 points and 12 quarts of Gatoradc,
the unofficial official U.S. team drink,
to play.

Even though Spain, which trailed 2-
I, still had a chance going into the third
day, in which the first afternoon's sin-
gles assignments were reversed, the tie
was over. Graebner, full of the confi-
dence he had lost against.Santana and
regained in the doubles, disposed of Gis-
bert in straight sets. 9-7, 6-3, 6-1, to
give the United States the third and de-
ciding point. That relegated the final
match between Ashe and Santana to the
status of pride only. Both played su-
perbly; Santana won the first and fourth
sets (13-11, 15-13), Ashe the second and
third (7-5, 6-3), when darkness forced
postponement of the fifth. Ashe finally
won the next day 6-3. It was a fitting
conclusion to a good tie, and surely
the most important one the United
States team will play all year. end

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Castrol XLR racing oil because this multigrade oil is
fortified with Liquid Tungsten to give superior
performance under the most severe service. I recommend
Castrol XLR for any car, racing or not, if the owner
really cares about his power plant."

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The Second
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: data ;

on sl Fishing Safari

It takes a stout heart to overcome even the usual frustrations connected with fishing. But problems
the author found in Zululand would make a crocodile shed human tears by Clive Gammon

I n the end I had to be firm about it. “Look,”
I said carefully, “I don't think we’re going
to do a lot of good here.” Jim Feely, mildly puz-
zled, looked round at me. Wasn’t this water?
Where fish lived? So what was wrong?

From a mudbank 50 yards away a crocodile
stared at us with an expression of bored con-
tempt. It had kept that up for two hours without
a movement. In my lap 1 cradled an unlikely look-
ing fishing outfit: a 6/0 reel loaded with what
looked like 1 00-pound-test nylon, attached precari-
ously to an anonymous bait-casting rod by plen-
ty of string and a knotted handkerchief. On a
large hook I had mounted a frozen pilchard, which
now reposed on the muddy bottom of the St.

Lucia estuary as far away frem the boat as I
could throw it — a good 20 feet. High, straw-col-
ored reeds cut us ofT from the rest of Zululand. I
could have been fishing a good-sized farm pond
if it weren't for the crocodile and a small flotilla
of hippopotamuses that showed nostrils, tiny ears
and gigantic rumps some little distance away.
The water must have been deeper where they
were. I calculated that my pilchard was lying in
two and a half feet of water, and not even the croc-
odile showed any interest.

“What’s wrong?” Jim asked. Brian van der
Merwe, the game ranger from the St. Lucia Game
Reserve and Park who had taken us out on the
estuary, was also very concerned. He abandoned

Birdy Days continued

his attempt to line up a magnificent black, bronze and
white fish eagle in the telescopic lens of a camera that
he'd fitted onto a rifle stock. "Maybe you've got the wrong
bait,” he suggested helpfully. Thai wouldn't have surprised
me, but there was a lot more wrong with this fishing ex-
pedition than just the bait. No fishing guides could have
been more genuinely anxious to please than Jim and Bri-
an, or more anxious for me to get some sport. The trou-
ble was that neither of them had the vaguest notion of
when, where and how to fish in Zululand. Or anywhere
else. It had taken some lime for this devastating truth to
come to light. For some weeks I had been fishing my way
around the South African coast, the arrangement being
that I should meet local anglers and go out on expeditions
with them. “Don't bring tackle," they'd told me before I
left London. "It’s going to be all laid on.”

I remember saying once in Sports Illustrated that I
was going to write a fishing book called Yon Should Have
Been Here Last Wednesday. That, admittedly, is still in
the planning stage, but I have already thought about the
sequel, which will be entitled It's All Laid On. To be fair,
a lot of it had been laid on this trip. It wasn’t anyone’s
fault that I'd spent a week in Cape Town, looking out of
the hotel window at the big seas running in False Bay, hop-
ing vainly that the weather would case enough for tuna
fishing. And I had enjoyed some success down in western
Cape Province with kob, a big South African sea perch
that weighs up to 50-odd pounds. There had, of course,
been the morning I fished for largemouth bass in a moun-
tain dam, above the town of Oudtshoorn, at the mayor's
invitation. It was a good morning, too, as I told him eu-
phorically at lunchtime. Twenty good fish I'd brought
back with me. There was a short, strained silence before
the polite congratulations came. How was I to know that
there was a bag limit of six?

Then there was the night trip at Knysna. Night fishing al-
ways paid off best in the lagoon, said the club secretary. So
the pair of us sailed off to fish through the dark hours. An-
other species called white steenbras was what we had in
mind, and the technique was not difficult. You baited up
with prawn, cast out, left the reel on click and out of gear
and went to sleep in one of the bunks, in the happy knowl-
edge that the scream of the reel would awaken you if you
had a strike. But I spent the whole night afraid to sleep in
case I missed the magic moment. No magic moment came,
and that was not surprising, since the secretary, tom be-
tween hospitality and sport, allowed the former instinct to
win and surreptitiously reeled in the lines before he went
to sleep, shamefacedly explaining in the morning that he
thought I'd appreciate a good night’s rest. There must
have been some County Kerry blood in him somewhere,
but at least we could fish the hours of early light, and, in
fact, I took a good steenbras before I had to come in.

All the time, though. I had been looking forward to Zu-
luland, to the great beaches of Kosi Bay and Sordwana

Bay, where the warm Mozambique Current touches the
coast and where the blue, rich water holds game fish from
marlin down to king mackerel. Real Africa, everyone said,
where the proud, sad, handsome Zulu nation still main-
tained its culture and identity. There were Zulus around
Durban, certainly, in the bedraggled concrete townships
provided for them outside the city. You could even get a
ricksha ride along the sea front, with the motor power
provided by a Zulu dressed in a technicolor travesty of
the plumes and beadwork of a 19th century chief, if your
tastes ran that way. Meanwhile, in Durban, from my room
in the great clifflikc Edward Hotel. I watched the surfers
come sweeping in on the huge Indian Ocean rollers and
waited for a message from the wild north.

It was Jim Feely, in fact, who came to pick me up, a
slight, out-of-place figure in the smart hotel lobby in his
faded khaki safari suit. He had a VW outside, covered in
what I would soon recognize as the red dust of Zululand.
For hours on the road north out of Durban we drove
through endless plantations of high sugar cane. The town-
ships thinned out until they were 30 or 40 miles apart,
and then we were crossing the dark red Tugcla River, the
southern boundary of Zululand. We were headed for Ubi-
7. ane, west of HJuhJuwc, where Jim was a partner in a
game ranch, outfitting hunting safaris and wildlife pho-
tography expeditions. We didn't talk about fishing, and it
didn't occur to me how odd that was until later.

Late that afternoon we sat on the veranda of the lodge.
Green, brown and yellow, the bushveld stretched away,
and through binoculars we watched zebra and impala mov-
ing on the hillside. It only needed Gregory Peck in his leop-
ard-skin hat band. “Where's your leopard-skin hat band?”

I asked Jim. “They’re out this year,” he said unsmiling,
“especially the nylon type.”

It seemed a good time to look at the gear and to make
a few plans. "What'll we do tomorrow?” I asked.

“Well,” said Jim easily, "I thought we might take a
look at the St. Lucia estuary. Get up early, try and get a
full day in.”

"What are we going to come across there?”

"It should be pretty good," Jim said. “It’s been getting
better all the time, for three or four years now.”

It was great to hear someone talking optimistically for
once. Fishermen almost always tell you it’s hopeless, just
to be on the safe side.

"Yes, there should be a lot of good stuff there," Jim
went on. “Egret, spoonbill, flamingo, Egyptian geese, go-
liath heron. . . .”

South African fish have pretty unfamiliar names, like
kabcljou, musselcrackcr, stumpnose and so on, but there
was something terribly wrong here.

“What about the fish, though?” I asked.

"Well, you see these silver fish jumping sometimes. Mil-
let. mullet, something like that,” he said. "Do you fancy
a bit of fishing? I don’t know that we’ll have an awful lot

of spare time, especially if you want to cover the northern
game reserves as well. . .

It was a full minute before I began to see the funny side
of it. 1 was talking to South Africa’s foremost young or-
nithologist, no less, who had carefully planned a bird-watch-
ing safari for me. Far up in the higher echelons of the
tourism department, someone had blundered. I watched
Jim visibly pull himself together. He was going to meet
this new challenge head on.

"W ell, now,” he said, "let’s be practical. We can make
a start. I've got a boat booked on St. Lucia tomorrow any-
how. I'll see what I can raise in the way of tackle.” He
shot off in the VW.

Two hours later he was back, triumphant. *Tve fixed
you up,” he said. "Rod, reel, the lot.” I didn't have the
heart to tell him that you don’t use a 6/0 big-game reel for
estuary fishing, nor do you employ it in combination with
a bait-casting rod. Fitting the two together was the main
problem. The reel seat wasn’t meant for a monster like
that. But 1 managed to jury-rig it. It was going to be in-
teresting fishing, especially since we had no sinkers and
the hooks looked as if they were designed for sharks.

“Fish for supper tomorrow night then?” said Jim, jovially
but not jokingly. He didn't know it wasn't as easy as snoop-
ing on flamingos. He was going to find out the hard way.

We had our early start. Brian van der Mcrwe was wait-
ing for us in a fine new flat-bottomed boat with a big out-
board motor. St. Lucia was a national park, and the boat
was really meant for taking out parties to view the wild-
life, but they had made an exception for us.

Mist curled away as we batted wildly down the great
open waters of the estuary. "Know any good spots?” I
shouted. In a place like this, more or less untouched by
anglers, even 100-pound-test line might outwit the un-
sophisticated fish, unsporting as that might be. Here the
estuary had widened out into an enormous lagoon, 25
miles across, and the fish could be anywhere. "We’ll go
right to the far end,” yelled Brian. I think he was anxious
to discover what the boat could do, and we made a wide
circular tour before we finally fetched up in the reedy for-
tress with the crocodile and hippo.

I gave it a good try. Conceivably, a fish big enough to
swallow a whole pilchard might come into three feet of
water, but I doubted it. "Can we find a deeper spot?” I

Birdy Days continued

asked Brian. “It’s all like this,” he replied gaily. Except, I
thought, for the hole that the hippos had a lien on.

It was a great morning for ornithologists. Two hand-
some fish eagles circled us, then settled on a tree stump to
watch. A long involved discussion started between Jim
and Brian on the question of whether the legs of the adult
white heron turned yellowish or black in the winter. It
was then that I realized I would have to be firm. "I don't
think we’re going to do a lot of good here," I said.

As I say, polite puzzlement was the reaction. My ec-
centric pastime might as well be carried on here as any-
where else, they implied. ‘‘We do catch mullet for the pan
sometimes,” said Brian, ‘‘but I don’t suppose you would
be interested in that.” My friend, I felt like telling him,
I’d be interested in any way of catching fish at the mo-
ment. More discreetly, I said, “Is that with rod and reel?"

"No." he admitted, "but I'll show you.”

I reeled up. My pilchard was untouched. I hauled the
anchor, or, more precisely, picked it up from the bottom.
Brian started up the engine and we hammered out of the
bay at full throttle, his favorite speed, sending up a bow
wave that rocked the hippos at what seemed to be their
moorings. I saw the croc slide gently from the mud into
the water. Had he been lining up to fish our spot? If he
had been, he was in for a disappointment.

We were out in the open lagoon, the heat haze blurring
the shoreline. Great dark clouds of widgeon burst off the
water. The ornithologists have got St. Lucia all tied up, I
thought bitterly. Meanwhile, the other two were keeping a
sharp lookout for the quarry. Suddenly, a big mullet ol
six or seven pounds shot straight up out of our wake, a
yard or more into the air. More followed, until there were
a dozen fish in the air at the same time. “We’re in, man!"
yelled Brian as he gunned the motor, and wc planed wild-
ly over the little choppy waves. Just how wc were in I
couldn't see. Maybe he was going to produce a butterfly
net from the locker.

But the procedure was a good deal less elaborate than
that. I began to sec the intention. Brian was going to cor-
ral those mullet in the way that a thresher shark will cor-
ral mackerel. " Hang on!” he roared, a wild, daft grin on
his face, and wc swept in a circle as mullet sprayed out ev-
erywhere. "Keep your heads down!" As the fish were com-
pressed into a tighter and tighter pocket, two big mullet
slapped smack into the rear of the cockpit. Another hit the
windshield. It didn't shatter but it subdued Brian for a mo-
ment. But we had two fish, and he was triumphant. "That’s
the way to do it," he said. "Course, you’ve got to be careful.
Had a bloke the other day, fish came out of the water and
broke his ha, ha, ha, bloody, ha, ha. jawbone."

We went in for lunch after that, and the head ranger of
the park informed me courteously that there were no fish
in the lagoon at the moment. No serious fish, that was to
say. The place to go was the surf and, in particular. Mis-
sion Rocks, a few miles up the coast. There, he said im-

pressively, wc would get kingfish. A 60-pounder had been
caught the previous day.

Kingfish at Mission Rocks, then. This, clearly, waswhere
the St. Lucia debacle would be forgotten, where the In-
dian Ocean surf would yield magnificent prizes. Only, what
could kingfish possibly be?

One day the United Nations or somebody is going to
have to standardize the names of saltwater game fish,
and, until they do, traveling anglers are going to be in trou-
ble. As far as I can make out, every sea has its own spe-
cies they call kingfish, and they are all different. To many
American anglers, kingfish is Scomberomorus cuvulla, or
king mackerel. There are plenty of king mackerel along
the South African coast, only there they happen to be
called, guess what, barracuda. They get real barracuda as
well, only they call them sea pike.

In the end I discovered that South African kingfish
equaled the American jack crevalle. Only not quite. The
Indian Ocean kingfish, though it bears a close family re-
semblance to the jack (and, in fact, is certainly one of the
Carangidae) runs a lot bigger. The all-African record is a
staggering 122 pounds — from the Zululand coast, inci-
dentally. Like the jack crevalle, it is taken in saltwater la-
goons and big estuaries as well as in the open sea.

All this I learned back at the lodge from Professor J. L.
Smith’s monumental work. The Fishes of South Africa , all
12 pounds of which I had carried with me from London,
incurring excess-baggage charges for just such moments
as this. Fecly came over when I was thumbing through
Smith, and I could tell that his interest was becoming
aroused. "If you're not very happy with the tackle," he
offered, "I could hunt around and try again for you.”

I retired with Smith and Charles Horne on Salt Water
Fishing in Southern Africa, so that I wouldn't miss a trick
if and when Feely returned with the gear. All the sounds
of Zululand came lazily through the mosquito screen that
stretched across the veranda. Crickets, the belling of bull-
frogs. From Chief Jobela Dumeguthe’s kraal, a little south
of the lodge, I could hear the rhythmic throb of his tran-
sistor radio. The Zulus are restless tonight. Carruthcrs, I
said to myself. The chief's son, Johan Dumeguthe, worked
as a game warden on the ranch, and now he put his head
around the door to ask if I would like some tea. “That
would be nice,” I said, and the comforting thought oc-
curred to me, not for the first time, that this was not 1879,
when the impis of Cetewayo, arguably the finest light in-
fantry the world has known, covered 40 miles a day on
foot to carve up a column of British regular infantry, sup-
ported by cavalry and artillery, on the bloody field of 1s-
andhlwana, 100 miles west of here. Johan returned and
served the tea. I picked up a book called The Washing of
the Spears by Donald Morris that Jim Fecly had left on
the table. A few pages left me in no doubt that a simple
cleansing of the Zulu assegais for the sake of appearance
was not what the author had in mind.

continued

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Birdy Days continued

Johan came in again to clear away. I gave him a keen,
searching look. “Everything all right, sir?" he said, some-
what puzzled. “Fine,” I said. I could hear Jim Feely's
VW revving and coughing up the rutted track. The relief
column, pushing up for Pietermaritzburg, had arrived. A
few hoarse cheers went up from the survivors in their tat-
tered uniforms. . . . Jim bounced in, very pleased with
himself. "The real thing this time," he announced, and he
was right. He’d been all the way to Mtubatuba and bor-
rowcdacouple of good surf-casting outfits. "Mission Rocks
in the morning." he said, rubbing his hands. “This could
be it!"

Before dinner we went out in front of the lodge to in-
troduce Jim to a little casting technique. Two eland and a
blue wildebeest, so tame that they were almost pets of the
house, broke away from the drinking trough and tore panic-
stricken into the bush. Johan, fascinated, watched our
actions for a while from the veranda, then called us in for
sundowner drinks. He moved silent-footed about the lodge.
"You’ll be O.K. here with Johan tonight, won't you?”
said Jim. "I have to go over to Hluhluwe.”

Directly after we’d eaten (nyala steaks with barbecue
sauce), Fecly took off. I read a few more pages of The Wash-
ing of the Spears, yawned a little and told Johan that I
was going to bed. He came in with a small oil lamp and
told me he'd give me a call in the morning. I moved out,
carrying a lamp which cast huge shadows on the walls
hung with zebra skins. In my bedroom the night noises
of the bush were clearer. I moved a massive rhino-horn
doorstop so that it kept the door closed, then got into bed
and put out the lamp. A thought occurred to me, and I
tried to light the lamp again, but nothing happened. I had
turned the wick down too far. I dozed. A short time later
I was yelling for fresh ammunition as yet another horde
of screaming Zulu warriors headed by Johan Dumcgulhe
reached the pathetically frail redoubt of mealie bags that
we had managed to throw up. . . .

I sat bolt upright in bed as the images vanished. A
demon laugh had seemed to come from right under the
window. I didn't get up. The next minute there was an enor-
mous sawing, rumbling noise. I got up and shoved the
rhino horn with its heavy base more firmly against the
door The earthquake noise came again, then ceased. 1
looked cautiously through the window. Nothing but the
black Zulu night. I tried to turn my mind firmly to tech-
niques of catching kingfish. I must have dozed again, for
the next thing I was aware of was a scraping noise as some-
body tried to push the rhino horn back. Whatever this
was, I had to go out and face it.

It was Johan, smiling, with early-morning tea. "Mr.
Fcely is here already," he said. "He thought you’d want
to make an early start."

"Sleep well?" asked Feely jauntily. I looked at him
with heavy eyes. “It was a little noisy.” I said. I told him
about the screams and the earth-moving noises. “Oh,” he

said, interested, “so the hyenas arc back." The other noise,
it appeared, was merely rhino rubbing against the stock-
ade fence. “They love to do it," said Feely. “They’re
there almost every night.” He might have warned me.

We drove east toward the coast. Eagle owls burst from
the headlights — we counted a dozen before the dawn broke.
As soon as it was light and we hit the tarred road, there
were Zulu girls selling pineapples and avocados. This was
the main route south from the cities of the Witwatersrand,
and later in the day there would be tourist cars. We picked
up bait from a fish stall in St. Lucia — huge prawns, cray-
fish tail, and more pilchards. Other cars had pulled in
there with rods aboard, and eager anglers were loading up
with bait also. Everybody agreed that Mission Rocks was
the place. Did we know that a 70-pound kingfish had
come from there the day before yesterday? I was inter-
ested to learn that dead fish grew just as rapidly here as
they did in other places.

It was a good long trek to Mission Rocks. We had to
leave the VW in the shade of a palm clump, then walk a
soft sandy path shaded by bougainvillea. There were plen-
ty of footprints along it, and Feely told me that there was
a spring tide, so we would be able to cross an uncovered
reef and cast into deep water.

The sands were white, mile after mile of them stretch-
ing north to the border of Portuguese East Africa. Piers
and sea walls of rock jutted into the sea at this place. You
could see why it was a good fishing spot. But the water
was wild. Not a breath of wind moved, yet big blue-green
waves marched in series to crash on the reef. This was
going to be a problem. There are no strong tidal currents
along the Zululand coast, and we had brought only light
sinkers. Maybe a dozen anglers were already fishing, wear-
ing the heavy leather belts and harnesses that South Af-
ricans all use for shore fishing. This does not mean that
they are ultracautious. Rockfish run to huge sizes there.
Red steenbras and kabcljou go more than 100 pounds,
and in some places they catch albacore and yellow and
bluefin tuna from the rocks.

We didn’t have harnesses, Feely and I, but that was
only because we couldn't borrow any. We waded through
the soft white sand, then scrambled over the rocks. The
rollers hit with a bomb burst of spray that made rainbow
patterns in the sun. The final rock platform was treach-
erous. There were deep holes, and fissures and bright green
patches of a lichcnous weed that almost took the feet
from under me the first time I stepped on one. We baited
up well back from the sea's edge. It was going to be a ques-
tion of running up to the lip to cast between rollers.

Purposely, I didn’t look at Feely as he made his first ap-
proach. I just heard the wild cry and turned to see him sit-
ting in a shallow pool, looking desperately at a horrible
snarl up of line on his reel spool. “Look out!” I yelled.
Too late. A wave smashed into the underside of the reef.
The water rose high in the air and fell on Feely. He scram-

You can’t buy
a better vodka
for love nor rubles.

Birdy Days continued

bled back, dripping, his hair in his eyes. It wasn’t fair.
This was not the way to be introduced to the gentle art of
angling.

It was my turn to venture out. I watched my timing and
in cowardly fashion contented myself with a quick lob of
50 or 60 yards. I let out line as I came back from the
ledge, then tightened up. A little too much. I felt a solid
resistance as the sinker or the hook snagged firmly in the
rock. I broke my line and walked back to the tackle bag
for more gear. In the course of the next couple of hours,
Feely and I got through 14 sinkers and 17 hooks.

But the fishing was better than at St. Lucia. I caught a
rock cod, a green and brown fish with enormous staring
eyes and a set of evil-looking spikes behind the dorsal fin.
It was 1 1 inches long. Feely caught a catfish and he was
stowing it in his bag. not saying much but obviously very
pleased, when another angler came along, looked at it
and said, “Deadly poisonous." This was the end. Feely
got his dry pack of cigarettes out of the tackle bag, ob-
serving that at least we could have a smoke. “Got a
light?" said Feely. I looked at him mutely and took out
my matches, congealed in a soggy mass. Feely rummaged
frantically in his bag and came up with nothing. As a
sport, fishing was rapidly plummeting in his estimation.

But back at the car we got lights from another dis-
appointed angler. It wasn't our fault, it seemed, that we

J2*noch and Edward followed
close behind with a handcart full of fish.

hadn't taken fish. Nobody had, because of the big ground
sea that was running, caused by a hurricane off Mada-
gascar, everyone thought. The big fish liked it calm. “You
should have been here yesterday," said our new friend. “I
hear there were a couple of 75-pound kingfish taken."

That night we sat around the oil lamp in the lodge, mak-
ing fresh plans. We’d tried the estuary and the shore.
Only one thing was left — offshore fishing. There are no
harbors in Zululand, or not what you'd call a harbor.
This, you’d think, would hinder the use of suitable vessels
for game fishing. But the locals had found a way around
this by going to sea in craft they called ski-boats, high-
prowed, fiat-bottomed boats propelled by two big out-
boards. What 'they have in common with reef fishing is
the timing technique. You launch off the beach in a surf
lull, then depend on the motors to get you out before a
big one breaks. Making a landfall is even more exciting.

So we fixed ourselves up with a ski-boat, organizing a
beach rendezvous with the skipper at 6 a.m. the next morn-
ing. We returned to the lodge and went to bed early. I
gave the night-lifing animals little thought and had a good —
if short— sleep. We were up at 4:30 and off to the coast
again. We made the beach just as the sun was rising. The
sea had settled down, and it looked very promising, ex-
cept that there was no skipper and no boat. A great wea-
riness settled over me. I couldn’t count the times I’ve been
let down by charter-boat skippers, from west Cork to
west Africa. I couldn't forecast what the explanation was
going to be this time. Trouble with the cooling system,
trouble with the crew, no bait, no fuel, bad forecast, sim-
ple fatigue on the skipper's part. The best I ever heard,
and it had the merit of honesty, was conveyed to me by a
small boy after I had waited for three hours on a remote
Northern Ireland quay. “Mr. Murphy, sir,” he said, "is
lying full, in Ballycastle.”

Feely was all for searching out our particular renegade,
but I knew we couldn’t win. “Let us,” I said calmly, “re-
turn to that pleasant-looking hotel we passed on the way
here and eat a good breakfast at our leisure.” Somehow I
was beginning to feel that I’d had Zululand. Old African
hands say that if you are too long away from civilization
you become what they call "bush happy." I had picked
up the condition in three days flat. I was beginning to
think, with sharp nostalgia, of the air-conditioned cock-
tail bar in the Edward Hotel in Durban, of the pleasant
terrace of my room from which I could watch the surfers
swooping in as I ate iced papaws. “Tell me, Jim," I said.
“Does anyone do charter fishing out of Durban?”

They did all right. Twenty-four hours later I was aboard
Jim Starke’s Skipjack, 40-odd feet of gleaming white paint,
burnished metal work and scrubbed deck, the kind of
boat you could fish from in your best pants. I eased my-
self luxuriously into the fighting chair, swinging it round
gently. It was the last day 1 had to fish in South Africa,
and I was going to enjoy it.

continued

memo*

■

f }&.

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Birdy Days continued

Starke turned out to be an American, an ex-U.S. Navy
commander. In the summer he fished marlin out of the
Bazaruto Islands in Portuguese East Africa, then came
back to Durban for the autumn and winter season. He
was a neat, dapper, tanned man, and when he talked
about barracuda he meant barracuda, not kingfish. That
alone I found a great relief. Jim Fcely came aboard and I
said, "At last you’re going to see some fishing.” Jim nod-
ded politely.

"We’ll have to find the blue water,” said Starke. The
Mozambique Current swings erratically at times. Some-
times it is within casting range of Durban pier. But it is
often necessary to go 20 miles out to find it, and we had
to find it. Starke reckoned there was nothing in the cooler
green water. It was too late in the year for marlin, he said,
even if we had a fortnight to spare to look for one. There
were still a few sailfish about, but the main sport was like-
ly to be with the smaller game species. There were a lot of
king, but they were best fished drifting with strip bait. Oth-
erwise there could be wahoo, ycllowfin tuna, kingfish (i.e.,
the South African jack), barracuda and, probably, a spe-
cies of bonito that sounded unfamiliar to me.

We decided to troll with artificials only, a couple of
tuna feathers splashing in the wake, and two six-inch spoons

fished deep on metal lines. Starke’s crewmen, Enoch and
Edward, busied themselves readying the gear. They were
quick and efficient, and we had the lures out trolling at
nine knots the minute we hit the blue water.

Or, at least we had three of the lures out. Before the
fourth was in the water there was a beautiful screaming
strike on one of the spoons, and I was in business again
as the line cut through the dark blue water and the rod
bucked against a backdrop of the gleaming white of Dur-
ban's waterfront. I knew it wasn’t a big fish, but even on
the heavy gear it won line twice, three times after the ini-
tial run, and, even before I saw the dark back of the fish
come up for Enoch to slip the gaff in, I knew what it was.
A small yellowfin tuna, 30 or 40 pounds.

It was a couple of minutes, but no longer, before we
found the fish again. A big school of porpoise was work-
ing south of us, and clearly herding fish. Every time we
ran across their bows there were strikes, each time on the
deep spoons. Jim Feely was now in the thick of it, yelling
and laughing wildly as his rod plunged and the water
around the stem was lashed white as Enoch and Edward
worked with the gaffs. When we had a minute to stop and
count there were 17 fish aboard, yellowfin and big bonito
mostly, but king mackerel as well and a single barracuda.

continued

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ILLINOIS

Barleffs Downtown

M c Shoo
Belleville
Smalls Inc.

Union CCO Co.

Beividere
Garrigan's
Bloomington
De Wenter's
Livingston's
Ulbrich & Kratt
Calumet City

Edward C. Minas Co.
Champaign

Jos. Kuhn & Company
Chicago

Klaus Dept. Slore
Chiiiicothe

Mannering's Men's Weai

Muirheids Men's Shop
East Alton
Barleffs Wilshire
E. St. Louis
Union Clo. Co.

Fairfield
Lex B. Tickners
Galesburg

The Continental
Stern & Field

Sohns Inc.

Hillsboro
Jim's Style Shop
Kewanee
Kirley & Son's
La Salle
Paul Khoury's
Powell's
Macomb

Nelson's Clo. Store
Marion

T.v.W. Men's Wear
Moline

Vander Vennet Clothing
Murphys boro
Square Deal Clo. House

Shank & Donahue
Paris

Lehman's

Peoria

Johnsons Inc.

Leo Nicholas Inc.

Quincy

State St. Store
Rockford
Owen's Inc.

D J. Stewart Company
Springfield

B. & F. Toggery
Robert Bros.

Taylorville

Summers Clo. Store
Tuscola

Four Seasons
W. Frankfort
Sohns Inc.

INDIANA

Anderson

Weilers Fair Store
Bedford

Slephenson's Clothing
Bruce Tinsley Mens Wear
Bloomington
Webster Men's Wear
Whitesides
Cambridge City

The Henderson Store
Columbus
Dell Bros.

Crawfordsville
Loeb's Dept. Store
Elkhart

Myer's Mens Wear
Ziesel's
Ft. Wayne

Maier's Gentlemen Altire
Franklin
Whitesides
Hammond

Edward C. Minas Co.
Indianapolis
Cohen Bros. "Hut"
Hudson's Men's Wear
L. Strauss & Co.

Wm. H. Block & Co.
Jasper

The Modern
Jeffersonville
Keith Clothing
Lafayette

' -eb's Dept. Store

Richmond

Hudson's Men's Wear
South Bend
Gilbert's

Wyman's Dept. Store
Robertson's
Terre Haute

Root's Dry Goods
Weis Bros.

Wabash

Max's Gentry Shop
W Lafayette

Rehm's Men's Wear

IOWA

Ames

Joe's Men's Shop
Ankeny

Flatt's Clothing
Atlantic
The Forum
Hensley's
Burlington
Johnson-Rasmusseh
Carroll

Nockei's Clothiers
Cedar Falls

Brad Fenner's Men's We
Clinton

Marlin Morris Co.
Clarinda

Livingston Clothing
Council Bluffs
John Beno
People’s Store
Cresco
Gildner's
Creston

Palm Clothing

Anderson Clothing
Des Moines
Bodin Van Dorn
Bonds of Beaverdale
Flatts Clothing
Frankel Clothing
Klein's Oept. Store
Newburn Clothing
Tower Shop
Emmetsburg

Estherville
McAdams Clothing
Fairfield

Perry Clothing

Fort Dodge
Boston Store
The Mr. Shop
Walrods
Grundy Center
Dudden's
Harlan

Harlan Clothing
Independence

Iowa Falls

Cly-Dal Clothes Shop
Keokuk

Richard's Men’s & Boy's

Harvey Bros.
Marshalltown
Dorosin's
St. Clair Kreiger
Mt. Pleasant
O'Conner's Clothing
Muscatine
Fox's. Inc.

Nevada

Ambrose Dept. Store
Newton

Wormhoudt Clothing
Oelwein
Baum's
Oskaloosa
Sunstrum's
Ottumwa
Men's Shop
Perry

Gardner's
Red Oak
The Crest
Sheldon
Wolff Bros.

Sioux City
Black Knight

Grayson's

Karlton’s

Raymond's

Morony Clothing
Spirit Lake
Oehl Clothing
Traer

Reuman's Clothing

Squire Shoppe
Waterloo

Richfield Clothes
Walker's Shoes
Waverly
Carriage House
Webster City
Lubber's Clothing
Winterset

Flatt’s Clothing
KANSAS
Arkansas City
Kelley-Gray
Beloit

James Clothing Co.
Coffeyville
Slrasburger's
Great Bend
Meschke's
Well's Clothing
Hutchinson
Meschke's
Wiley's
Jewell

James Clothing Co.

Ottawa

Wassmer's

Salina

Hines-Roth

Stiefef's

Van's Men’s Wear
Topeka

Palace Clothing Co.

Brook Inc.

MICHIGAN

Allen Park

B. L. Sims Men's & Boy's

Hughes-Hatcher-Suffrin
Sim's Men's Wear
Wagner's
Battle Creek

Coles Clothes of Distinction
Faulhabers Varsity Shop
Big Rapids

Towne & Country
Clio

Ray's Toggery
Dearborn

Hughes-Hatcher-Suffrin
B. L, Sims Men's & Boy's
Detroit

Hughes-Hatcher-Suffrin
The Princeton Shop
Sim's Men's Wear
Dowagiac
PhiTlipson's
Flint

Blackstone Clothing

A. M. Davison
Fremont

Rebers Mens Wear
Grand Rapids
Cardinal Men's Shop
Coles Clothes of Distinction
Herpoisheimer's
Hughes-Hatcher-Suffrin
Jurgens & Holtvluwer Stores
Manley's Men's & Boys Wear
J. W. Niemeyer Mens & Boys W
Rogers Dept. Store
Grandville
The Tog Shop
Grosse Pointe
E. J. Hickey's
Hughes-Hatcher-Suffrin
Hancock

Stern & Field
Holland

The Lokker-Rutgers Co.

Taylors of Holland
Iron Mountain

Koffman's Store for Men
Ironwood
Stern & Field
Jackson
Field’s

Hughes-Hatcher-Suffrin

Kalamazoo

Jud Knapper Boys Store
Libin's Varsity Shop
Lansing

Holden & Reid Stores
J. W. Knapp Co
Lincoln Park

B. L. Sims Men's & Boy's
Hughes-Hatcher-Suffrin

Ludington

Bergers Mens & Boys Wear
Marine City
Finsterwald's
Marquette
Stern & Field
Mt. Clemen's
Anton's Men's Apparel
Room al the Back
Muskegon

Lakeside Dept. Store
Hardy-Herpolshelmer
Newaygo

Powers Clothing
New Baltimore

Michael Bros. Men's Wear
Niles

Paul's Toggery
Owosso

D. M, Christian Co.

Larry Coy Toggery
Plymouth

Famous Men’s Wear
Pontiac

Osmuns Town & Country
Hughes-Hatcher-Suffrin
Port Huron

Andy Thomas
Richmond

Duengels Men's Wear
Rochester

Mitzelfeld's Dept. Store
Roseville

Hughes-Hatcher-Suffrin
Royal Oak

B. L. Sims Men's & Boys
Southfield

Hughes-Hatcher-Suffrin

Saginaw

Muller Bros. me.

Webster Men's Wear
Sturgis

Carl Rehm Clothes

Hamiltons
Union Lake

R. M. Dept. Store
Utica

Anton's Men's Apparel
Van Dyke Clothiers
Warren
Osmun's

Hughes-Hatcher-Suffrin

Wayne

Mulholland's

Ypsilanti

Haywards

MINNESOTA

Hutchinson

Hartwig's

Mason's Dept. Store
Clinton

J. L. Goss Clo. Co.
Hazelwood
Goldes of Hazelwood
Jefferson City

Schnlders Mens Wear
Joplin

Newman's
Kansas City

Foreman & Clark Stores
Nevada

Shanks & Sterett
St. Charles
Palace Clo. Co.

St. Louis

Goldes Dept. Store
Herman's Toggery

NEBRASKA

Aurora

Morgan's Mens Wear

The Leader
The Squire Shop
Mansfield

Fashion-Lane Clothiers
H. L. Reed Co.

Marion

Walter Axthelm Inc.

The Uhler Phillips Co.
Marysville
Otte's
Middleport
Bahr Clothiers
Middletown Plaza
Myers Ltd.

Southgate Men's Shop
Oxford

Jack's Corner Store
Portsmouth
Phil Wolff
St. Marys

Kellermeyer Mens Wear
Toledo

LaSalle & Koch Co.

Troy

Longendelpher's Mens We

B. L. - .

Traverse City

is Men's & Boys

Beatrice
Schmitt's
Bellvue

ir The Nebraska
Southroads
Blair

Nelson Bros.

Broken Bow

Fariss Mens Wear
Fremont

Philip's Dept. Store
Tuliy’s
Grand Island
Curry-Sipple
Greenbergers
Hastings
C. E. Linn Co.

J. M, McDonald Co.
Holdrege
The Man's Shop
Kearney

Cliff's Mens Wear
Lexington
Loudens
Lincoln

Ben Simon's
Millard

Lindley Clothing
Nebraska City
Rowe Clothiers
Norfolk

J M. McDonald Co.
No. Platte
Hirschfeld's
Omaha
The Nebraska
Philip's Dept. Store
Tuily’s
Seward

Engler Clothing
Superior
Ray Ruth's
Wahoo

Lindley Clothing
Swan-McLean
OHIO
Ashland

The Toggery
Athens

Robert's Mens Shop
Bellefontaine
Buchenroths Inc.
Bluff ton

Geiger & Diller
Cambridge
Tyson's Men's Wear
Cincinnati

Ritz Dept. Store
Delaware

Anderson Clothing
Eaton

Moysey Brothers
Elyria

Harry's Mens Wear
Gailipolis
Thomas Clothiers
I ronton

Edelson’s Mens Shop
Jay's Mens Shop. Inc.
Kenton
Boyd's
Lancaster
The Hickle Co.

Plaza Men's Shop Inc.
Lebanon

Keever’s Mens Shop

Zofkie Clothing Co.

Wilmington

South Mens Wear
Woodsfield
Diehl s Inc.

Wooster

Nick Amster Clothing

SOUTH DAKOTA

Brookings
Quail's Clothing
Mitchell

The Toggery
Sioux Falls

Norman's Mens Wear
Yankton

Hanny's Mens Wear

WISCONSIN

Antigo

Paul's Store
Appleton

Behnke's Clothing
Ashland

Stern & Field
Beaver Dam
Lisser & Maier
Beloit

McMeany's
The National
Black River Falls
K. Ferries Clothiers
Brookfield
Boston Store
T. A. Chapman Co.

Chippewa Falls
Herberger's
Cudahy

Dretzka's Dept. Store
FI. Atkinson:

Jim's Shop
Glendale
Boston Store
T. A. Chapman Co.

Green Bay

Nau's Mr. Shop
Stiefel's
White Store
Hartford
Delaney's
Hartland
Jacobs
Hurley
Paul's Store
Janesville

R. M. Bostwlck A Son Mens Store

Continental
Doerfllnger's
Madison
Bormanns
The Hub
Milwaukee
Boston Store
T. A. Chapman Co.

Jac. F. Donges
Gieringer-Palace,

Pantke-Harpke Co.

Stanley's

Minocqua

Ross Sportswear
Monroe
Schuetze's
Oconomowoc
Jacob's
Oshkosh
Continental
Oregon Clothing
Plymouth

Sternberg’s Clothing
Racine

Jacobson's Dept. Store
Jorgensen's
Stevens Point
Campbell's

Watertown

Chas. Fisher & Son
Wausau

Herberger's (Surburban)

Birdy Days continued

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DON’T

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EVERY

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KEEP AMERICA BEAUTIFUL

Slarke worked the boat hard from the
bridge, circling again and again in front
of the porpoise. When pressed, Jim Fee-
ls admitted that it beat snooping on fla-
mingos.

It looked as if the feather lures on
the surface weren’t earning their keep,
and I was just going to take them in to
check them when one was grabbed vi-
olently and I was in action again. I’d
moved into a routine with the fish I’d
been taking, making them fight for ev-
ery inch of line on the first run, then ham-
mering them in mercilessly to the side.
After the first couple of fish, you don’t
fumble anything, you know' just what
they are going to do and you beat them
sw iftly and economically. This was a dif-
ferent kind of fish. The runs were more
powerful, the changes of direction swift-
er. And there was another new thing.
Each time the fish stopped there came a
succession of arm-wrenching thumps, as
if someone had the rod tip in his hands
and was pulling it down. It was a long
time before I could bring the fish near
the boat, then Enoch, hanging over the
gunwale and looking into the clear wa-
ter, shouted “Kingfish!” and in the end
I could see the broad side in the water
and the high forehead of the fish, and
the heavy scutes along the lateral line.
Around 70 pounds of kingfish. If it
fought like that from a boat, on charter
tackle, you could see why the boys on
Mission Rocks wore body harnesses. 1
was all ready to go again when Starke
looked down from the bridge and said,
“Sorry. One o'clock.” It wasn't that he
wanted to go in. I had a flight booked
to Johannesburg that afternoon and my
suit was below ready for a quick change
on board, with a clean shirt and all the
rest of my luggage.

So I disembarked like a city gent, an
effect made a little more bizarre by the
fact that Enoch and Edward followed
me close behind with a handcart full of
fish. The longshoremen didn't know
whether to put me down as a fish mer-
chant or an illegal immigrant. Jim Feely
was also following close behind. “Tell
me now,” he was saying, “how much
would I have to pay for a rod like the
one I was using . . . ?” end

BASEBALL’S WEEK

by DICK RUSSELL

NATIONAL LEAGUE

In this era of the draft dodger, Houston's (5-
3) Doug Rader must be a source of pride
to his Army Reserve unit. The 24-year-old
could hardly wait to catch a flight home
for a brief hitch. After all, the military
couldn't be more threatening than his last
week in New York. Rader, who precipitated
a brawl in an earlier series against the Mets,
received more than 40 threatening letters
from irate fans, "talking about guns and
knives and getting me at the hotel." Team-
mate Rusty Staub, whose red hair resem-
bles Rader's, even pasted his own name on
the back of his uniform, explaining, "I don't
want them to get the wrong guy." Rader
left for the Army, and the only major erup-
tion came from the Astros themselves, who
moved into ninth place behind Don Wil-
son's two shutouts and home runs in four
consecutive games by Jim Wynn. Injuries
proved a blessing in disguise for Cincinnati
(6-1). Mack Jones, Fred Whitfield and Pat
Corrales — all filling in for regulars — drove
in 16 runs as the Reds moved back into
third place. The team averaged a rousing
.348 and made Tony Cloninger's first shut-
out in two years look easy. Predictably, san
Francisco’s (4-2) Juan Marichal won two
more games. Amazingly, he finished just
one of them. When Marichal left after five
innings against the Phils, it marked only
the second time in his last 99 victories, dat-
ing back to 1964, that he did not complete
a winning effort. All of a sudden Atlanta (3-
3) found st. louis (3-4) was not invin-
cible. Big pitching jobs from Pat Jarvis and
Milt Pappas — who beat the Cards for the
first time and now has defeated every team
in baseball— meant two victories. The Cards
finally were hit by injuries as Curt Flood,
Johnny Edwards and Julian Javier all came

up ailing. Nobody felt the hitting famine
harder than new york (3-3) rookie Jim
McAndrcws, who naturally hails from Lost
Nation, Iowa. Though his earned-run mark
fell below 2.00, he lost his fourth straight
game. The Mets have yet to score a run for
him in 24?^ innings. Chicago (2-6) fans
poured in at 30,000 per game during one se-
ries, but the Cubs then fell victim to two shut-
outs and lost six in a row. Pittsburgh (3-3)
won one game on Chris Cannizzaro’s first
major league homer but quaked when Ro-
berto Clemente announced he would retire
unless his shoulder ailment healed. Don
Lock's grand slam homer provided the only
lift for slumping Philadelphia (3-4), while
los angei.es (1-4), third in mid-June, de-
scended into the cellar.

Standings: SIL 79-45. Cin 63-56. SF 64-58.

AH 63-60, Chi 64-61, Pill 59-64. Phil 56-65.

NY 57-69. Hou 56 69. LA 54-68

AMERICAN LEAGUE

It was the 11th inning and Detroit (4-2),
having blown a seven-run lead, was strug-
gling to hang on against the Red Sox. Bill
Freehan, who had needed a dozen salt tab-
lets, two quarts of orange juice and three
shirt changes just to stay in the game, was
due up. He ambled to the plate, 12 pounds
lighter than he was in the first inning, and
promptly laced a two-out home run into Fen-
way Park's left-field screen. It was a typical
Tiger finish— the 31st time the team had ral-
lied to win after the seventh inning. A .385,
nine RBI week from Norm Cash helped,
too, to keep Detroit safely atop the league.
Everything came in threes for new York (6-
I ). The Yankees came up with a three-run
ninth, a three-run first and a three-run hom-
er by Andy Kosco, and they amounted to
three victories. Also buoying the Yankees

was Al Downing, sore armer most of the
season at Binghamton, who pitched seven
strong innings. Though Mike Andrews
(.433) sparked the boston (5-3) attack, two
pitchers also got in some licks. Ray Culp
singled home the winning run in a 2-1 vic-
tory, and Juan Pizarro's suicide squeeze won
a game against the Tigers. Don Buford
scored nine of Baltimore's (5-3) 32 runs
as the Orioles stayed within range of first
place. Their most unlikely hero was Paul
Blair, who entered one game as a pinch run-
ner and scored the tying run, then doubled
home the clinchers the next inning after trip-
ping over first base. Washington (3-4)
moved to within five games of ninth as vet-
eran Camilo Pascual won his 1 1 th game.
Cleveland (3-4) claimed three one-run de-
cisions, including a three-hitter by Sonny
Sicbert. That was possible, of course, only
when Jose Cardenal, the team's own mys-
tic, burned his necktie to shake the seven-
game losing streak. The one bright spot for
California (3-4) was the sudden ability of
Tom Satriano to produce runs. An Oriole
buddy, Don Buford, gave Satriano one of
his extra bats, and the result was nine RBIs
in five games. Minnesota's (3-5) Jim Kaat
moved ever closer to winning a steak din-
ner from pitching mate Dean Chance. Who-
ever bats higher wins. With a game-win-
ning, bases-loaded double, Kaat now is hit-
ting .143. Chance stands at .060. Campy
Campaneris (.308), hitting in his 15th
straight game, has helped Oakland (2-5)
match its 1967 victory total. In contrast, Chi-
cago (3-6), using more than three pitchers
per game, sank 27 games from first, lowest
ebb in 18 years.

Standings Del 78-44. Balt 71-51, Bos 67-57,

Clev 66-60 , 0ak62-60. NY57-61, Mmn57 64,

Cal 56-67. Chi 51-71 Wash 45-75

HIGHLIGHT

Except for those who operate from a rectangular
slab of white rubber in mid-diamond, it has been —
as everybody knows by now — a sparse season for
baseball. And any farsighted hopes of tilling the bai-
ting void must go farther than the current rookie
crop. None of the first-year men excites memories
of a young Mantle or Mays and, in fact, 19 of the
32 who have seen extended action arc pitchers. The
best of the lot is the Mets' Jerry Koosman, a 25-year-
old from Appleton, Minn, with a 16-7 record, 1.87
earned run average and six shutouts — one short of
the National League rookie record Then there are
the Yankees’ Stan Bahnscn (2.13 ERA), the An-
gels' Tom Murphy (2.17), Pittsburgh's Bob
Moose (2.41) and Cleveland Reliever Vicente Romo
(1.58). So much for those who emulate their elders.

The only batting upstart is Cincinnati Catcher John
Bench, a 20-ycar-old who ranks among the team
leaders in three categories for the league's best hit-
ting squad. In spring training. Reds' Manager Dave
Bristol indicated Bench would be a big asset if he
hit .220. He is now at .275 with 61 RBIs and draw-
ing raves from people like Cardinal Manager Red
Schoendicnst, who says, “I've never seen a better
catcher." After Bench, it is a long drop to Giant
speedster Bobby Bonds (.252), hailed as Willie Mays’
successor in center; Washington's Del Unscr (.239);
Houston's Hector Torres (.231 ) and Baltimore's El-
rod Hendricks (.227). At least Unscr and Torres
have some consolation — both are hitting better than
they did in the minors. For the fans, there is also a
glimmer of hope. Of the first 20 selections in the
June frcc-agcnt draft, II were outfielders and only
four were partial to that rectangular white slab.

FOR THE RECORD

A roundup ol the sports information of the week

(wo week-, ago). SAN DIEGO and OAKLAND
were nol scheduled but stayed on lop of (he West-
ern Conference Pacific Division, VANCOUVER
lost its game. LOS ANGELES tied one In (he
Gulf Division, KANSAS CITY split two games
and remained in first, while second-place ST. LOUIS
closed the gap to seven points, posting two vic-
tories over Dallas and a loss to Boston. HOUS-
TON, slill in contention, won two games; DAL-
LAS dropped three.

a and the West shared
for the Rev. Dr. Mar-
tin Luther King" Jr. Memorial campaign, as the
EAST All Stars won the first game 77 6 1 at the Sing-
er Bowl in Flushing Meadow on Long Island, and
the WEST took the second 108 104 in Philadelphia.
Proceeds amounting to more than Si 50,000 will be
divided between the Southern Christian Leadership
Conference and New York City’s Youth and Phys-
ical Fitness Fund.

boating— U S. 5. 5-metcr Champion GARDNER
COX won the first of a seven-race scries in the Olym-
pic trials for the class off California's Newport Har-
bor Yacht Club (page 44).

A low score of 52 points earned veteran skipper
EARL ELMS of San Diego the Hcinzcrling Tro-
phy and an unprecedented third consecutive Na-
tional Snipe Class Championship off Alamitos Bay,
Calif. Runners-up. by 9.8 points, in the best six of
seven races were Jint Warfield and Cort Willmott.
both of San Francisco.

GOLF PGA Champion JULIUS BOROS blasted out
of a trap, then sank a 12-foot putt for a birdie on
the final hole at the S250.000 Westchester Classic
in Harrison. N Y and defeated three younger ri-
vals by one stroke for the $50,000 first-place prize
(page 14 ). Back in second, at 273. were rookie
Bob Murphy. Defending Champion Jack Nicklaus
and veteran Dan Sikes.

KATHY WHITWORTH scored an unofficial rc-
cord-tving 62 in the final round of the $16,000 Hol-
iday Inn invitational in Normandy. Mo. and took

Kimball by six strokes, with a 206.

JOANNE GUNDERSON CARNER of Seekonk.
Mass, waded her way through the flooded Bir-
mingham (Mich.) Country Club course to her fifth
U.S. Women's Amateur title, defeating Seattle chal-
lenger and three-time winner Anne Quasi Welts, 5
and 4 in the 36-hole final.

harness racing U.S. trotters swept the first three
places in the S50.000 Gotham at Yonkers Racc-
wav. when the Billy Haughton entry of CARLISLE
($4.80) and Flamboyant finished one. two in the
field oT nine, followed by Sir Faffcc, a 50-to-l long

Hamblctonian Hopeful Ncvclc Pride broke stride
as well as an 18-race winning streak when he lost
the first heat, and then summary prize, of the $16,730
Review Futurity at the Illinois Stale Fair. SNOW
SPEED was the winner.

France's redoubtable Roquipinc looked less than
that in the $30,000 Prix d'Europe lor trotters, as

she finished eighth toTHET IS |V (59 to 4) in the field
of 1 6 at the Enghicn racetrack near Paris.

horse RACING C. V. Whitney's lightly regarded
CHOMPION (S3 1.20) picked up S55.802 for Ins
owner and a first stakes victory for himself when
he upset Forward Pass. Calumet Farm's Kentucky
Derby, Prcakncss and American Derby winner, by
I /, lengths in the S85.850 Travers Stakes at Sar-
atoga Springs. The win. only Chompion's sec-
ond in 12 outings this season, generously compensat-
ed for his previous failures and upped his 1968 earn-
ings to $87,742,

Irish-bred LUDHAM ($6 40)
Park's S 54. 200 Matron Handicap
ican victory in six starts (U.S c,
by finishing six lengths ahead of

made Arlington
arnings. $75,980)

tennis Fighting hack after an earlier upset (and first
American Davis Cup loss this year), home-tow ner
Clark Graebncr staged a comeback in his 9-7. 6-3.6 -
I defeat of Juan Givbcrt at the intcr/onc semifinals

I over Spain (page 5 3).

Aussie KEN ROSEWALL took the men's singles
title at the S20.000 Colonial National Invitation
tournament in Fort Worth 6-4. 6-3 over Spain's
Andre * Gi mcno. while He fending Champion and
No. I -ranked Rod Laver (page 22) was eliminated
in (he second round by Mai Anderson.

California's top-seeded, sturdy but swift southpaw
KRISTY PIGEON battled through a 56-mmutc
final match in the U.S Girls' championships at
the Philadelphia Cricket Club to win the title front
Linda Tuero. of Metairie. La 6-4, 6-4. Miss Pi-
geon then teamed with Denise Carter, also of Cal-

FACES IN THE CROWD

JANET NEWBERRY

made the USLTA 16-
and-undcr champion-
ship her third major tri-
umph over fellow-Cal-
iforman Kristicn Kcm-
mer this season, when
she defeated Miss Kcm-
mcr, the nation's No. I-
ranked 16-ycar-old and
defending titlisl, 6-1,
6-3 in Lake Bluff, III.

pace MERRILL, a de-
termined 14-ycar-old
from Baraboo, Wis.,
urged officials at the
National High School
Rodeo in Topeka,
Kans. to recheck their
tabulations. They did,
discovered an error,
and named Freshman
Merrill the All-Around
cowboy of the contest.

HARDY WARD, the

1966 U.S. archery
champion (at the age
of 16) and last year's
runner-up, regained the
men'serown at the meet
in Tahlequah. Okla. by
outshootinghisgreatest
rival. Ray Rogers (Ibc
defending titlist and
world champion), by
10 points.

SIEGFRIED KOCH, a

chemical lab technician
from Chicago — one-
time campaigner on the
West German national
cycling team (1960 65)
— joined the Alberta
Cascades for the Tour
de )a Nouvcllc France
in Quebec, and won,
completing 1,182 miles
in 51:02:20.

RUTH HANGEN, a 52-

ycar-old grandmother
from Snyder, N.Y., led
all qualifiers at the U.S.
Women’s Horseshoe
Pitching Champion-
ships in Middlesex, N.J.
with a 72 r ; ringer aver-
age, then took the title,
defeating Virginian
Cindy Dean in the
final match.

JIM STEDMAN, star for
the Libby (Mont.)
American Legion base-
ball team, struck out
184 (including 32 in a
doublchcadcr) in 95 in-
nings for a 1.23 F.RA
and a 10-6 won-lost
record. Jim. currently
batting .340, also is
leading his team with
10 home runs.

19) "ole the readers take over

PRECEDENTEO DECISION

Sirs:

I am a charter subscriber, and this is my
first letter to one of my favorite and more
enjoyable magazines. In "They Said It”
(Scorecard, July 22) you attribute to Chief
Justice Earl Warren: "I always turn to the
sports section first. The sports page records
man’s accomplishments; the front page has
nothing b»t man’s failures." I read the quote
many years ago — and at rfiat time it be-
longed to the late William Lyon Phelps, pro-
fessor of English literature at Yale.

William M. Clines

Los Angeles

• Professor Phelps, a sports enthusiast,
tennis player, golfer, baseball fan and a
distance runner in his college days,
phrased the same thought somewhat less
succinctly in his Autobiography with Let-
ters: “The love of most men for sport
and their absorbing interest in it cannot
perhaps be defended rationally; it is an
instinct going deeper than reason. . . .
The fact that the majority of men turn
first of all to the sporting page of the
newspaper can be accounted for on the
ground that the first page is usually a
record of failures — failures in business,
failures in the art of living together, fail-
ures in citizenship, in character, and
many other things; whereas the sporting
page is a record of victories. It contains
some good news, a commodity so rare-
ly found on the first page."— ED.

THE BLACK ATHLETE (CONT.)

Sirs:

I have read your highly illuminating sc-
ries on the Negro athlete in the predom-
inantly white colleges ( The Black Athlete —
A Shameful Story, July 1-29) and I confess
that I found the situation astonishing. As a
Negro and an educator I suppose the rea-
son for my astonishment stems from the
fact that the athlete is treated so differently
in the predominantly Negro colleges with
which I am familiar. These institutions would
not admit anyone who did not have good
potentiality as a student, and they deal with
him as a student first and secondly as an ath-
lete. Such a policy may not make for na-
tional championship teams, but it docs con-
tribute to the development of educated
human beings and socially useful Americans.

The type of “slave" traffic described in
the scries the hiring of bodies, exploiting
them and discarding them when they are
no longer of value— is despicable and de-
mands the immediate attention not only
of the coaches but the highest authorities

in the colleges and universities involved.

Until the situation is changed, however,
the young men with athletic ability who
are also hungry for an education will find
that the member colleges of the United Ne-
gro College Fund and other predominantly
Negro colleges will be very pleased to con-
sider their applications. Moreover, those
who have the talent and desire to become
professional athletes will find that the rec-
ord indicates that attendance at a predom-
inantly Negro college does not in any way
jeopardize their chances.

Sports Illustrated deserves the highest
commendation and a Pulitzer Piize for hav-
ing the insight to research the problem, the
wisdom to assign a talented reporter to the
job and the courage to report the story as
it is.

Stephen J. Wright
President

United Negro College Fund, Inc.

New York City

Sirs:

U has been my pleasure to nvotV. with
Buddy Young, former Baltimore Colt star,
in his present capacity as an executive of
the National Football League. Young ini-
tiated and was the chief creative mind be-
hind the recent association of the NFL and
AFL with the world’s largest nongovern-
mental professional employment service,
Snelling & Snelling.

Called Career Opportunities, the program
opens our 375 offices to professional-cal-
iber football players for placement in busi-
ness and industry. Moreover, it is designed
to assist the many collegiate players who
are scouted by the NFL and AFL but aren’t
up to a tryout at training camp.

We can undoubtedly open hundreds of
doors for these young men, white and black
alike.

Richard Chadwick Edstrom
Assistant vice-president
Snelling & Snelling, Inc.

Paoli, Pa.

Sirs:

I must be a tough, insensitive old bird
but my sympathies don't quite reach the
Negro athlete of the elm-lined campus or
the remunerative professional leagues. The
countless underprivileged youths of all col-
ors who will never see the inside of a col-
lege institution reach me. The poor, the ig-
nored, the orphans of all races in America
stir me far more than the carping and wail-
ing of Jack Olsen on the limited social life
of the black college athlete. As one of the
journalists here in England reminded his
readers, the American Negro on the world-
wide scale of "haves and have-nots" is on

the side of the “haves." The athlete is of-
ten the new millionaire. More power to him,
but I cannot weep for him.

Let me tell you what docs concern me.
Children starving in Africa. The TV news
here almost nightly documents sights that
will haunt me as long as I live. I saw star-
vation in Korea, but nothing like this.

With the misery, the degradation and slav-
ery that confronts us all, I hope that all
Americans will ignore the ignorance, snob-
bery and prejudice that will never quite be
erased and concentrate on the alleviation
of the lot of the oppressed throughout the
world. It is here that our guilt and its cleans-
ing must be found.

Lieut. Colonel Frank A. Reilly
APO New York

CONTINUING CLIMB

Sirs:

Bravo on your article A Summer Hike to
Share (July 22) by Rose Mary Mechem.
The article and Hanson Carroll’s fine pic-
tures not only bring out the strong points
in father -son relations but help to illustrate
the need for conservation of our God-given
country.

I am a Cub master for a pack in Italy
and have a 7-year-old son of my own. While
taking my son on a 25-mile hike (normal
for us) up treacherous rock dominant in
this country he said, “Come on, Dad, we
have some mountains to climb." I’m still
climbing.

John H. Coats

FPO, New York

QUESTIONS

Sirs:

Someday, when one of your writers has
the time, I would like him to write me a let-
ter describing wherein lies the greatness of
horse racing. I find the thought of intel-
ligent men spending considerable time and
effort to cultivate a breed of animals— beau-
tiful as they may be— merely for their dis-
plays on a racetrack disgusting, to say the
least. The people who persistently attend
these races, with their concomitant squan-
dering of supposedly hard-earned wages,
present another point of disgust equally well.

The answer to my question is probably
related to the fine and artistic tradition of
horse racing as well as man’s unavoidable
compulsion to gamble. Such an answer, how-
ever, merely condones both the snobbery
and selfishness of the rich as well as the eas-
ily curable "disease" of gambling.

The fact is that the world's priorities are
changing. Sport's priorities arc changing as
well. We can no longer afford the aggran-
dizement of man's trivial activities and cults.
Sport should be something that invigorates
continued

19TM HOLE continued

I* If Field & Stream's

M fcpSjH aroma doesn’t
remind you of a
BWjt'j ’ii. great autumn day
...you’re catching
a cold.

l£]

LSJ

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the body and builds character. It should
not be considered the exclusive mystique of
the rich, as is horse racing.

Eli Goodman

Philadelphia

Sirs:

I'm gonna keep yelling my head off until
someone like Ye Old Compleat Horseman
answers. To wit: Is something seriously
wrong with U.S. horse racing? Docs pound-
ing around the same dinky, iron-hard oval
day after day hurt the horse? Break his legs?
Drive him crazy? Has the whole scene been
cheapened because distance racing has been
curtailed?

And since today's Thoroughbred rarely
goes more than a mile and a half or carries
1 30 pounds, how do you rate him? By mon-
ey earned? Balderdash. Nowadays almost
any run-of-the-mill plug can earn more loot
in one afternoon than Man o' War could
in a whole season.

I don't expect to get my answer from the
Establishment. No. What 1 have in mind is
the disinterested observer, the old-line hor-
sy type who is in racing for the fun of it.

Bill Donnelly

Tulsa

SUPPORT FOR McLAIN

Sirs:

How dare Mike Duffy attack Denny Mc-
Lain in Si's August 12 letters section? He
implies that the Tiger hitting is responsible
for Denny's success. As Denny won his 25th
victory last week, batting averages for the
leading Tiger hitlers stood at .274 for Hor-
ton and Kaline, .254 for McAuliffe and .251
for Freehan. That is hardly the kind of hit-
ting to provide for a 25-3 record.

On the contrary, Denny McLain has
steadied an erratic pitching staff and he will
be the chief reason why the Tigers win the
pennant this year.

Mike Doyle

Bloomfield Hills, Mich.

FLIES IN THE OINTMENT

Sirs:

I was overjoyed to read Frank Deford's
article on the National Flycasting League
(My Buttle fur Our Rightful Place at the
Top, July 22). Unfortunately, Commissioner
Ford Frump did not cover the current prob-
lems that arc facing this great sport and per-
haps you can give me further information
on the following points:

1) Whether it is true, "as their opponents
alleged,” that the Oakland Sea Lions are
using the spit fly.

2) That Owner Horace Sturgeon is plan-
ning to move his franchise because of
the competition from night heron racing.

3) The claim by players that this year's fish
are much deader than those of the past
seasons, and they have no chance of pass-

ing the fabulous Babe Roe's one-season
record.

4) The dispute on whether the intentional
tangle should be made automatic in or-
der to speed up the game.

5) The decision by some owners to shorten
the ponds to help their weak casters.

6) The players' demand for a bigger share
for the use of their pictures on bait cards.

7) The reason that Sandy Codfish retired
in his prime.

I am sure millions of other fans, in ad-
dition to myself, are interested in these vital
questions. I sleep better at night knowing
that Ford Frump is in the Whale House.

Gerald E. Seltzer

Oakland, Calif.

HEARTWARMING

Sirs:

I feel a warm surge of emotion every
lime I read a story dealing with a sport
that is close to my heart. I felt this when I
read the great piece by Joan Gould about
Long Island Sound sailboat racing (Wind
from the Northeast, Aug. 12).

The descriptions of the race were very ac-
curate and familiar, right down to the roast
beef sandwich from the delicatessen. The
descriptions of the northeaster were equal-
ly true. I thank you for a story that a won-
derful group of people can identify with.

Tom Kanter

Harrison, N.Y.

FAIR AND FREAKY

Sirs:

In his article on the 1968 PGA Cham-
pionship (The Junkman Coots It, July 29),
Dan Jenkins indicated that Aronimink Golf
Club of Newtown Square, Pa. is considered
a “freaky" golf course. I have been playing
golf for about 30 years now, and it has al-
ways been my impression that to be clas-
sified as freaky a golf course must have
some rather odd features, such as creeks wan-
dering through fairways, trees in the mid-
dle of fairways, traps or unusual dogleg
holes, all of which contribute to the ne-
cessity to play other than a standard, nor-
mal type of golf. Aronimink has no creeks
at all, no trees in any fairway, no traps in
any fairway, no dogleg holes that can be driv-
en over or through and no par-4s more
than 450 yards in length. It is a course that
measures less than 7,000 yards from the
back tees and is sccnically quite attractive.

I would rather assume that your golf edi-
tor has never laid eyes on Aronimink and
obtained his misinformation from some dis-
gruntled “pro" attempting to excuse his own
ineptness. However, look at the damage that
has been done. In the Philadelphia area one
does not belong to a freaky golf club, as
that is just not the thing to do.

H. L. Murray Jr.

Radnor, Pa.

YESTERDAY

First Perfect Game in the Major Leagues

The record books call him John Lee Richmond of Brown University— but the name might easily have been
Merriwell when he took time off from class to pitch for Worcester against Cleveland by JOHN HANLON

|\ /luch of the drama of a “perfect"
baseball game involves its total
unpredictability, and perhaps none of
the 10 perfect games pitched in the ma-
jor leagues was more unlikely than the
first to make the record books, the one
thrown by John Lee Richmond on June
12, 1880.

Richmond, a lefthander, had just
turned 23 and was about to graduate
from Brown University when he pitched
for Worcester against Cleveland that day
in a National League game at Worces-
ter's Fair Grounds. Richmond had come
to Brown from Ohio and in 1879 he
pitched his team to the college cham-
pionship, beating Yale in the climactic
contest through diligent use of his chief

asset, a good curveball that was still a
bit of a novelty. It was well he had the
curve. The pitcher in those times, col-
lege and professional, made an under-
hand throw, and the batter, among other
advantages granted him, was allowed to
state where in the strike zone he pre-
ferred to have each pitch. Even then
there were those who doubted that a
ball could be made to curve, but Rich-
mond once put on a demonstration for
the Brown faculty to show that he truly
pitched with "a curved delivery."

In the season of 1879, his junior year
in college, Richmond first came to the
attention of the major leaguers when he
pitched two no-hit games. One was on
June 2, when he was invited to pitch

for the Worcester team — then in the mi-
nors — against Pop Anson’s Chicago
White Stockings, the reigning major
league team of the era. Richmond al-
lowed them only one base on balls in a
game called because of rain after seven
innings. Six weeks later he pitched a nine-
inning no-hitter against Springfield in
Worcester's own league.

In 1880 Worcester moved up for the
first of the three seasons it would be rep-
resented in the National League. Rich-
mond elected to forgo his last year of
college ball and signed to pitch for
Worcester whenever classroom work
would permit until graduation and full
time thereafter.

On June 10, a Thursday, Richmond
continued

Stroll through the week in
your “Saturday best.”

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CONNECTICUT

GENERAL

pitched his team to victory in the first
game of a scries with Cleveland, then
took a train from Worcester to Prov-
idence to join his classmates in their com-
mencement festivities. Friday evening’s
program consisted of the senior-class
supper at a downtown Providence es-
tablishment called the Music Hall, and
it went on through the night. Richmond
caught a morning train for Worcester
and his Saturday afternoon assignment
against Cleveland.

Richmond, as usual, was not over-
powering, striking out only five, but he
obviously had his good stuff working
despite his lack of rest. Only three balls
went past the infield. Fred Corey caught
one of them in center field. Alonzo
Knight, in right, took a foul fly just out-
side the line in his territory. The other
one made up the outstanding play that,
almost traditionally, every no-hit pitcher
gets behind him on the way to his feat.

It happened in one of the middle in-
nings, and it was Alonzo Knight’s doing.
Cleveland’s Bill Phillips drilled a ball
into Knight's area. Instead of fielding it
and tossing to second to hold the run-
ner, Knight charged the ball and fired
it underhand to Jim Sullivan at first base,
and Phillips was called out by the um-
pire, Foghorn Bradley.

Worcester scored its run in the fifth
inning. Fred Irwin started things with
his second hit. one of only three that
Worcester got off Cleveland’s manager
and star pitcher, James McCormick
(Richmond got the other). Irwin even-
tually scored when Cleveland's rookie
second baseman, Fred (Sure Shot) Dun-
lap, made two errors on a potential dou-
ble-play ball. It was the only run Rich-
mond needed.

After the eighth inning a five-minute
cloudburst halted play and left the field
thoroughly soaked. Even this didn’t trou-
ble Richmond. With a heap of sawdust
beside him on the mound to help keep
the ball dry, he finished off the job with-
out incident.

Richmond played four more seasons
in the majors and during the same pe-
riod was a medical student at the Uni-
versity of the City of New York (now
NYU). After he received his degree he
was a practicing physician in Ohio for
a decade. Then he turned to education
and had a distinguished career in To-
ledo, first at the high-school level and
then at the University of Toledo. He
died in 1929 at the age of 72. end

Life Insurance Company, Hartford At Connecticut General we do things a little dillerently.

Connecticut General

H. I. S. slacks in CONE corduroy

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Kodel polyester and co tton. Choice of seven high-scoring
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